New Celebrations: The Adventures of Anthony Villiers (33 page)

Perhaps it was the influence of the suit. It may be that the well-known weirdness of Trogs, sufficient in prime to make their restriction reasonable, is a direct result of their form. At least pause to consider that if you looked like that, it would probably affect your mind. And to wear a Trog suit may be to open the susceptible mind to a metapsychotic transference. In any case, Trog suits are illegal on thirteen worlds on general principles.

Charles, presented with the waltzing Trog, misguidedly said, “I find it impossible to smile through, sir. I truly hate to grovel and wear orange.”

“What?”

“Grovel—as before dinner.”

“Oh, yes, that.” Sir Henry thought. “But then we don’t always like what is good for us, do we? I think you should accept Lord Semichastny’s judgment, even if you don’t understand it. If you will only accept the principle of natural order, you will find that life becomes much easier to deal with. Smiling is the major part.”

Charles said, “Were positions reversed, would you smile?”

“I think I would. I’m sure I would.”

“In that case, sir, grovel. And enjoy it.” Limited Volition can be a dangerous thing. An audacious challenge.

But Sir Henry the Trog fell to consideration of the suggestion. And since he did accept the principle of natural order, he thought he could. Or ought to be able to. “All right,” he said.

Sir Henry levered himself to the floor, paused on his knees for a breath, and then he began to kick and whimper.

“Louder,” said Charles inexorably. “And you’re supposed to yell your fault.”

“My fault! Oh, my fault! I am sorry. I repent. Forgive me. (What is it I did?) Whatever I did, I’m sorry for it and if you’ll only forgive me I’ll never do it again.”

Finally Charles said, “All right. That’s enough.”

Sir Henry came back to his knees.

“Did you enjoy it?” asked Charles.

“I’m smiling,” said Sir Henry, who was a bit winded. It was impossible to say whether or not he actually was smiling because of the costume. But if he did smile, perhaps he did smile. It wasn’t impossible that he should. After all, in spite of all Charles said, deep within him, deep deep within him, he did enjoy groveling just the least little bit.

“Yes, sir,” said Charles.

Sir Henry said. “I’ll have to speak to Lord Semichastny. At close range your carpets are quite lovely.” The heavy Trog head nodded. “But that can wait. I must have my word with Lady Oliphaunt.”

“Yes, sir,” said Charles.

“I trust that was satisfactory?”

“Yes, sir,” said Charles.

“Very good, then. Keep smiling.”

Sir Henry clumped out and down the corridor. He may have been smiling. At the least, he did offer every appearance of friendliness and good intention. Assume he was smiling—as a man who has taken the dangerous step of testing his premises, and has found them true, he had reason. Be heartened.

* * *

Harbourne skirted a mess on the stairs. The mechanical who had carried the message was cleaning it up.

“What happened here?” Harbourne asked.

“An accident,” the mechanical said. And then, “It was a melon. It was my fault.”

“I’m sure it was,” said Harbourne.

Harbourne was ambitious and able. He had thought about what he wanted in life, and through self-discipline and sacrifice he was slowly achieving what he coveted, slowly molding himself into what he wanted to be. He was cool and played his hand warily.

Lord Semichastny, on the other hand, was less concerned with what he might be. He knew himself for what he was and didn’t care if he pleased anyone. He did as he pleased and spoke as he pleased. He even dressed more extravagantly than Harbourne.

The room was all hung about with ornamental rugs. Long-pile, short-pile, fringed. They made the walls close and the room dark and warm.

Lord Semichastny invited Harbourne to take a seat and Harbourne sat down in a hard straight chair. Lord Semichastny remained standing, free to prowl as he pleased, the room his run.

“Aren’t you taking a chance in leaving Villiers alone with Lady Oliphaunt?” Harbourne asked. “She’s restless. He’s attractive, isn’t he? It appeared to me that you were trying to fix your interest.”

“Why thank you,” said Lord Semichastny dangerously. “But you underestimate me, Harbourne. Lady Oliphaunt and I are friends of long standing, and my interests are already fixed. Young Charteris will not be here for long, whatever his attractions.”

“Is the title genuine?” Harbourne asked.

“Yes,” said Lord Semichastny. “Are you jealous? Some nephews have better endowments than others, but this one is my sister’s son and comes by his title honestly.”

Harbourne was jealous. But he said, “Sister’s son?”

“To be sure. Did you think him in common trade?”

Harbourne said, “If I had a title, I would go to Nashua now. I wouldn’t wait any longer.”

There are many aspirant gentlemen on shelves around the Empire, ripening themselves for Nashua like so many cheeses. Harbourne felt himself almost ready, but still lacked the resolve to go. The thought of Nashua awed him.

“Enter a game. Fight for a title.”

“I don’t fight that well.”

“You might buy one. I myself have several minor titles that I could part with. How would you like to style yourself Thegn of Vrane?”

“I’m not sure,” said Harbourne. “I fear your prices, milord.”

“If my sources of information are correct, you have already booked passage from Delbalso.”

“After your party, milord. I had meant to tell you. With winter approaching, I thought it might be appropriate to visit another of my widespread family.”

Lord Semichastny circled the room. He lurked as he talked. From behind Harbourne, he said, “It’s a pity you have no taste for winter sports. How would you like to be Thegn of Vrane? Would you stay the winter for it?”

Harbourne considered. “I think I might.”

“Well, it’s unfortunate that I no longer hold the title. If I did, I’m more than certain that I would test your resolve. On the other hand, you are planning to leave.”

“Yes,” said Harbourne, trying to suppress his frustration. Turning on a hard wooden chair to speak over your shoulder can remind you where you are and who you are.

“Would you like a good recommendation to carry away with you, one speaking highly of your ability and initiative? Full credit for a splendid job as overseer of my Delbalso estates.”

“Is this another hypothetical bargain, or do you mean it?”

“Oh, I do mean it. Of course I mean it. I’m surprised to hear that you have doubt of me.” Lord Semichastny paused behind his desk and put his hands behind his back and looked directly at Harbourne. “I merely want you to go into town and find typical Delbalso natives, a good representative sample, and invite them out here to the masquerade. If it can’t be done any other way, let us show Sir Henry the company he can expect.”

“The Monist Association, too?”

“Oh, yes. Them in particular. Dig them out, bring them to the light, and let us give Sir Henry the chance to see them, whatever they are.”

Harbourne took a heavy breath and nipped at an irritation on his lip, and then he said, “But I know no one.”

“What?” said Lord Semichastny. “Here this long and still a stranger? In any case, Nephew, I have no interest in inviting your acquaintances to the masquerade. I want people you don’t know and would no longer care to. The reference, after all, speaks of—what did I say?—initiative and ability.”

“Yes,” said Harbourne. “That’s what you said. All right. I’ll do it, but under the condition that I have a hand drafting the recommendation.”

“Of course,” said Lord Semichastny. “Who other than you knows your unique and particular talents so well?”

And so they came to terms. But Lord Semichastny could not resist saying, “You might be interested to know that my nephew—my
other
nephew—passed himself by his family name when he made his bow on Nashua.”

“ ‘Villiers’?”

“Yes. And he managed, or so I’m given to understand.”

* * *

“I believe this may be your husband now, milady,” said Villiers.

Sir Henry the Trog pranced into the room, humming, casting fantastic shadows on the wall. This was not the terror-arousing disintegration of character that it might appear. It was, in fact, another risk-taking exploration of the possibilities of Sir Henry’s new body. He was one with Icarus. But he frightened his wife. Daedalus got scared, too.

“Is that you, Henry?” she asked.

“Indeed it is,” he said. “And a very good evening to you. Tell me, Lord Charteris, what think you of my choice of costume?”

“It fits you admirably,” said Villiers.

“That was Charles’s doing. And between us, he has some very loose ideas for a robot. I demonstrated natural order to him, however, and he may be the better for it. What’s the matter, my dear?”

“Nothing,” she said. “You disconcerted me for a moment.”

“Oh,” he said, and the almost blue-enough eyes bulged pensively.

“As it happens,” said Villiers, “I’ve had occasion to observe a Trog in nature, and your representation is largely excellent, Sir Henry.”

“Really?” asked Sir Henry. “They’re—I mean, we’re—restricted, aren’t we?”

“You are,” said Villiers. “But then I travel widely.”

“Do you think you could show me what I’m doing wrong?” asked Sir Henry.

“To be sure,” said Villiers, and his light cone shone a little brighter.

Lady Oliphaunt gave an exasperated sign and sat down with her back to them. If there was a flaw in her character—an unfortunate thing to suggest even tentatively of such a pretty lady—it was that she lacked patience. A failure to appreciate Trogs cannot be called a character flaw. It has to be called a lapse in taste. Oh, well, she was still an attractive woman, if not as attractive as she had been, say, five years before. Five years before, Villiers might have been a shade less interested in demonstrating how a Trog walks. But then people change.

A mechanical serving table wheeled in while Villiers had Sir Henry doing hunkers and squats.

“My word, this is difficult.”

“But I assure you that it’s typical behavior. It’s easier to do for a natural Trog.”

The serving table made a slow graceful curve across the room, pirouetting as it came, raising and lowering its serving covers with the rhythm of an elegant bird. Having demonstrated itself to best advantage, it came to a halt before Villiers.

“Milord,” it said, “Lord Semichastny awaits your attendance.”

Villiers said, “Your pardon, Sir Henry. I’m stayed for.”

“Go, by all means,” said Sir Henry the Trog. “I shall practice what you have shown me until I see you again.”

When Villiers and the serving table, still fluttering its serving covers, had left the library, Sir Henry did a final practice hunker.

Then he said, “Well, my dear, isn’t this a fine costume? I’m liking it more by the minute. Don’t you think it radiates friendliness and good intentions?”

“To be frank, Henry,” she said, “I don’t. Trogs are such uncertain creatures.”

“Are they?” he asked. “Uncertain.” It gave him something to think about, since as it happened he was feeling rakishly uncertain at that particular moment, and it made him aware and gave him pause for enjoyment.

But then he said, “And . . . but . . . what do you know of Trogs, my dear?”

“When I was presented on Nashua, I met the Trog Chief Hostage. He was a soldier, black and white, and very fierce. He gave me a considerable fright.”

“Do I frighten you?” Sir Henry asked.

“I must confess you don’t,” she said.

“Oh.”

“However, when you entered you did disconcert me for a brief moment,” she said, allowing her face to break.

“I’m sorry,” he said automatically, and moved to comfort her as she cried briefly. He comforted her with a clumsiness that clearly showed his need for further practice in the costume.

Lady Oliphaunt said, “Henry, will you take the suit off now?”

“Not yet, my dear. I’m still getting used to it.”

She sat up abruptly, glancing off his muzzle with some force. She rose. She said, “I’ll be going into town later to see if I can find an appropriate costume for this masquerade.”

“Oh,” he said. “I’m disappointed. I was rather hoping I could persuade you to make a set with me.”

You see now, perhaps. You couldn’t tell a man like that about a melon on the staircase.

* * *

There was something that seemed familiar in the serving table’s manner and Villiers wondered about it. “Excuse me,” he said. “Did you bring the message for Mr. Firnhaber earlier in the evening?”

The table closed all its covers. “I was hoping you wouldn’t recognize me, milord. Those are my least attractive attachments.”

“I wouldn’t say that at all,” said Villiers. “But I must congratulate you. I think you make a most attractive serving table.”

When Villiers entered, Lord Semichastny dismissed the table and offered him a choice of hard or soft chair. Villiers waited until Lord Semichastny had drawn out his own seat behind the desk, and then he took the soft chair and settled into it comfortably. He accepted a smoke with the confidence of a man who has no fear of befuddling his mind, and doesn’t mind greatly if he fouls his lungs. That’s nonchalance. Lord Semichastny lit up, too, so as not to be overtopped.

Lord Semichastny had a stack of letters on the desk before him. He squared the pile.

He said, “I’m curious to know what possessed your father to send you my way?”

Villiers said, “I’m afraid I can’t answer that. I’m on no better terms with him than you are. He has a peculiar sense of humor. He may have just been curious to see what we would make of each other. For myself, I haven’t so many relatives not to enjoy the chance of meeting one.” He blew out smoke.

Lord Semichastny thumbed the letters, flipping them over one by one. He said, “I’ve seen mention of you from time to time in the Garlinghouse
Alumni Notes
.”

“I remember seeing mentions of you, sir. Class of ’09, I believe. My address has been unstable of late, and I seem to have missed the
Notes
, though I must admit not greatly.”