New Celebrations: The Adventures of Anthony Villiers (37 page)
Read New Celebrations: The Adventures of Anthony Villiers Online
Authors: Alexei Panshin
* * *
Harbourne Firnhaber came to the early conclusion that his noble new-found cousin was right in one regard. There were few people on the streets.
He had made the mistake of anticipating the town and the task, and neither proved to be what he had pictured. All too often we mistake our own habits, interests, and ambitions for universal facts, not realizing that there are one or two families that do not sit down to Sunday dinner at three. Harbourne had thought that since there was nothing that he would have liked better in his planet-bound days than to be invited to a viscount’s party, he would have no trouble in filling Lord Semichastny’s maison with louts and gawkers. But just as Lord Charteris had said, the night and streets were empty.
Harbourne had left his cousin in an empty bistro and begun to walk. And he saw no one, not even the Xochitl Sodality of whom Charteris had warned him. As time passed, his anticipations curdled and he began to suspect that he had made a bad bargain.
He stopped in the street and looked about him. In the black heights he could hear bells. They sounded in better spirits than he and played a tune.
He looked at the houses about him and wondered whether he ought to start knocking at one door and the next. In the face of empty streets, it was the next step to take, but he wasn’t prompt to take it. Lord Semichastny had been right. These were people the like of which he no longer knew and no longer cared to know.
He might be capable of knocking and asking if he had to. He rather thought he was. But he didn’t relish the idea.
And then he saw a man ahead of him on the street. It was a man of a dignified age wearing a white mantle with a blue fringe.
Harbourne almost broke into a run, but managed to control himself. He walked toward the man and when they came together he said, “Good even, sir.” At least the man was clean.
“Good evening,” the man said with manners, if not manner. It was Ossian Chimmeroon.
Harbourne presented his proposition. He found that once begun, the words were not difficult.
He introduced himself and extended an invitation to a party on behalf of Lord Geoffrey Semichastny. As he put it, it sounded like splendid fun.
“Lord Semichastny feels that he has neglected his Delbalso neighbors and desires this chance to entertain them, as well as give them the opportunity of meeting Sir Henry Oliphaunt, the new Empire Administrator.”
Chimmeroon said, “Not in these clothes.”
“Lord Semichastny wishes to present the informal atmosphere of Delbalso—the better to put Sir Henry at ease. He said ‘come-as-you-are.’ ”
“Oh, no,” said Chimmeroon. “I just threw this on when we set out to look for Badrian Beaufils. Are you sure you mean Lord Semichastny?”
“Oh, yes. Yes.”
“And the Empire Administrator?”
“In company with his lady.”
“And a party.”
“It’s all true,” said Harbourne. “Isn’t it just like a dream?”
“Yes. It’s been a long night. But I can’t go,” Chimmeroon said definitely. “I still must find Badrian Beaufils. Tell me, Friend Harcourt . . .”
“Harbourne.”
“Have you seen a group of men of an age somewhat younger than mine, all dressed in blue, and some with hats and feathers?”
“No,” said Harbourne. “Have you seen anyone at all?”
* * *
Between the dark and the daylight on the planet of Delbalso, when the night is beginning to bore, there comes a pause in the night’s occupations when solitary peels, ordinarily content to cling torpidly to their tree branches, carefully unwrap themselves and slide to the ground for a convivial stretch. The signal for movement is a heavy grunt from the least peel, a complaint of muscles too long cramped, answered by a chorus of confirming grunts from the neighboring branches, and then echoed in all the trees surrounding. The air is filled with common complaint and common decision. The break is brief, and when their stretch is done, the peels wind their way back to a new branch and a symbiotic slumber that lasts until dawn.
Villiers left the
Centre
at peelgrunt. The peels in the park around the town green were honored, admired and pampered, and in the green itself they were presented with a beautiful spot to foregather. In return, they were expected to grunt lustily, which I am pleased to say they did.
Xenakis said, “There’s your peelgrunt. From the sound I’d say it will be good weather tonight, clear until morning. If you’ll go to the windows, in a minute or two you will see the peels beginning to foregather.”
“Thank you,” said Villiers, rising, “but I must be on my way. I’ll catch a look from the street.”
“It’s not the same,” said Xenakis. “Not the same at all. We have the best view of the green right here. The Xochitl Sodality will be playing Wonders and Marvels there later tonight. Most local people—those that aren’t Monists—tend to see it as common, but I enjoy watching it. I recommend it to you.”
“I may take your recommendation,” said Villiers. “Indeed I had some notion of a look at the Xochitl Sodality.”
As Villiers left, Xenakis and the pantographers were standing at the window and chuckling down at the gathering peels. Villiers took the front steps down to the cobble street and then turned right. He did take his promised look at the peels. However, Xenakis had been right. The view was inferior. Bits and pieces only of the green could be seen through the deliberate distractions of the trees, and of the peels Villiers could have said little but that they were like black and brown wriggling fur boas. Villiers did not pause with his look, but set off up the hill toward Parini’s, condemned to business in others’ playtime.
The street climbed the hill in steps. Villiers was on the second flight when he heard one of his names called. It was “Lord Charteris”—and while that choice of name did not announce the caller, it did limit him to the lesser part of Villiers’ acquaintance.
He turned. “Ah, Mr. Slyne. It is a pleasant evening for exercise.”
Slyne hurried up. He said, “These people just don’t have any idea of proper respect for the Empire. I intend to speak to the new Administrator. Have you seen my assistant, Mr. McBe? They took me away from him. He was the young man who questioned your papers. Oh. I’m so agitated.”
He removed his sensory amplifier to calm himself. Sensory amplifiers are useful, particularly to Orthodoxous, but they are a doubtful thing for an upset mind.
“I remember him,” said Villiers. “However, I haven’t seen him since I left Castle Rock.”
“Oh, I’m worried,” said Slyne. “We were separated by circumstance and now he is alone in the night. Did you hear that series of roars?”
“Peelgrunt, perhaps?”
Slyne considered what his roars might have been without benefit of the night, his state of mind and his amplifier.
“They might have been grunts. But it must have unnerved him. He lacks confidence. I noted that tonight and I was attempting to strengthen his resolve. You must remember. You saw me.”
“I do remember,” said Villiers.
On the heights of Castle Rock another ship landed. From where they stood, the green was not visible, but its lights were. There were lights in scatterings through the town and then the great solid massif standing above the opposite slope, big and black and lit by lightning, soundless lightning. Soundless ship. No growl of energy. The ship descended in silent display and the only sound that Villiers could hear was the sound of Christian bells.
Slyne fitted his amplifier over his head the better to consider the ship. He still could not hear it, though his view of it was substantially improved. However, the bells were amplified sufficiently to cause him extreme agitation, so he removed the amplifier again.
“I keep having to take it off,” he said. “I’m so disturbed. I can’t concentrate. Why does the ship make no sound? Why do the bells ring?”
Villiers said, “I believe the neighborhood has acoustical advantages which are reflected in the rents. The bells ring in Christian celebration.”
“It’s strange. It’s strange,” said Slyne. “I’ve never been in a place like this before. What can’t happen to me?”
He meant to say “McBe” but he said “me.” It shocked him, because he considered himself safe and stable and in control. It was his fortune that he had never been on Livermore, far more disconcerting than Delbalso.
He took himself in hand to hear Villiers say, “Perhaps being separated from you will be the very making of him, sir. He may discover that he has resources.”
“Oh, he’s not ready,” said Slyne. “I only realize it now. We were close behind that Trog, ready to take him in hand and properly examine his papers. You remember the Trog.”
“I do remember.”
“You haven’t seen him again, have you?”
“No,” said Villiers. “Not since I departed Castle Rock.”
“We were very close to the Trog when another ship landed. Then it was bells. Then we fell into the hands of Monists. Them,” he said bleakly.
And he was right. They were in the process of being surrounded by a band in yellow. Monists, to be sure. And Schermerhorn House. And . . .
“Rafael Abdelnoor, at your service.” Abdelnoor swept off his hat. Only then did he recognize Slyne, and he sighed and turned to Villiers and put his hat back on.
“I’m not playing,” said Slyne.
“I know that you are not,” said Abdelnoor. “Sir, are you?”
“Of course,” said Villiers.
“Then I should inform you that you have been chosen our official Marvel for the night. Please come along.”
“You wish me to be your Marvel? I’m sure you must be able to do better.”
“True,” said Abdelnoor. “But it’s growing late. Sometimes we must make do.”
8
T
HE AMOEBA ONLY KNOWS AS MUCH OF THE UNIVERSE
as it can touch, and its direct image of the world is necessarily incomplete. But generation to generation the amoeba remembers what it has touched, and builds and builds its picture.
We know at first hand a bountiful universe beyond the amoeba’s dreams. We are the amoeba’s dreams, the result of its striving to know more of the universe. And generation to generation, we remember what we have touched, and build and build our picture.
When man first started counting, he thought he had five senses: hearing, sight, taste, smell, and touch. On a recount he discovered that subsumed under touch were at least three senses, separate and distinct—pressure, temperature, and texture—and that subsumed under taste were at least two.
He kept counting, and added the vestibular and kinesthetic senses. And the so-called Synesthetic Gearbox, which added confusion to sense.
One count totaled twenty-six, and another thirty-two. The definitive study by DeJudicibus in 1107 listed seventeen common human senses, from sight and smell to esthetics and self-awareness, and twenty more senses as rare, indistinct, or only rumored.
The seventeen basic senses appear in every combination and degree in humans, the variance accounting for so many of our everyday differences in opinion. Any one sense may be strengthened to impressive limits by attention, experience and practice. But even all seventeen senses at their limit yield an imperfect picture of the universe. Subtle harmonies lie beyond our detection. The stars sing songs no man has ever heard.
However, if man doesn’t hear the songs the stars sing, there are those that do. The Bessain, for instance, have been engaged in an eon-long conversation with their star to claimed mutual benefit.
And we have our strengths. Our senses are more than receptors. They acknowledge the presence of other sensitive concentrations of energy. Without sight—and our appreciation—the stars would not shine.
The Bessain report their star is delighted that its theoretical efforts are appreciated. So ask not for whom the stars shine. They shine for thee, and they are glad to do it.
* * *
Harbourne Firnhaber was a convinced Realist. He believed so strongly that words were things that he expected to feel significantly different and better on that day on which he somehow fulfilled his ambition and came into possession of a title. And it was as a Realist, cowed by the size and shape of the word “Monist,” that he stood outside Joralemon House nerving himself to knock. It was the single-minded unity of the word that he believed and feared. He felt dwarfed by it.
After a time, however, his ambitions got the better of his disquiet, and he tested the door. He sounded it twice, with every evidence of firm conviction.
The door was opened by a warder in the blue of Joralemon. It matched the flag over the door and the purfling on Ossian Chimmeroon’s gabardine.
“Good evening, sir,” the warder said. “How may I help you?”
“I bear an invitation from Lord Semichastny,” said Harbourne, and made his explanations. He spoke plausibly and winningly. “And he wishes the entire . . . household here to make the most of his hospitality.”
“Why, that’s very generous,” said the warder. “Come right in. Did you say Lord Semichastny?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Harbourne.
“Lord Semichastny. Well, well. I never thought of him as a generous man.”
“Oh, he’s a very generous man. He is known widely for his generosity to orphans. And he has treated me as though I were a member of his own family. I’m confident that you’ll have a good time.”
With the door closed behind Harbourne, the warder said, “I’ll have your invitation put to the House. I almost wish I didn’t have the honor of duty. I’d like to go myself.”
Harbourne was pleased by the warder’s friendliness. He could feel the tension leaving his tightly bound stomach muscles.
“By all means, find a substitute and come,” Harbourne said.
“I’ll only be a few minutes,” the warder said. He showed Harbourne to a chair and handed him several brochures describing both the Monists and their philosophy and the special attractions of membership in Joralemon House. “You might read these to while the time.”
Harbourne did thumb the brochures, but found the illustrations unexciting and the textual argument uncompelling. He studied the parquetry floor until the warder returned. Then he stood.
“Yes,” he said.
The warder was apologetic. “I just came on duty,” he said. “I’m sorry to say that it escaped my notice, but tonight as it happens is Xochitl Sodality. It’s their night. No one else feels much like going out.”
“You asked them?”
“Oh, yes. I asked anyway and everyone said they didn’t think so. I was told to say thank you on behalf of everyone. Do keep us in mind for another time.”
“I understand,” said Harbourne, who did not understand.
“By the way,” said the warder. “What did you think of the brochures? The literature I gave you?”
Harbourne looked down at the brochures he still held in his left hand.
“Very interesting,” he said. And under the warder’s eye he put the brochures in his coat. He felt he had to do it.
* * *
It was around the hub of the night in the streets of Delbalso when a consolidated party of the Greens of Pierrepont, agreed on their Trog Marvel, met a much smaller party of the Blues of Joralemon, with no Marvel or Wonder at all. It was a party of three led by young—for the Xochitl Sodality—Badrian Beaufils, the same party from Joralemon encountered by Villiers earlier in the night.
And the Greens called out “Aha,” and made a point of showing their Wonder. They didn’t care. They felt secure.
And the Blues hung their heads, because they did care and they had no Marvel and the night was passing.
Standing amidst the original quartet who had co-opted him, and further surrounded by succeeding additions of Pierrepont Sodality members, Torve’s view of the world had been limited. But when the Joralemon Blues were encountered, the surrounding herd split wide to display Torve. And in that moment he saw Badrian Beaufils and recognized him.
And in that moment, Badrian Beaufils lifted his hung head to view the Greens’ Marvel. And he recognized the pen pal of whom Villiers had spoken earlier in the night. Torve the Trog was not only on Delbalso, he was
here
.
They bounded toward each other to the sweet accompaniment of hearty happy Christian bells and huzzahs from some in both Green and Blue, and they embraced.
“Hey,” cried Cohen, Newman, Zimmerman, and Rose. “That’s
our
Marvel!” And they believed he was.
When Badrian Beaufils understood, he was not happy. “Well, if Ossian Chimmeroon was bringing him to me, I don’t think you ought to have him. He’s my pen pal, after all.”
“Ah, but we saw him first as a Marvel,” said the four. “And Ossian Chimmeroon is no longer in the Xochitl Sodality.”
“What is problem?” Torve inquired of his friend. “World has many Wonders.” In the afterglow of bells he said, “There is Christian. Why not him?”
“A Christian?” said Badrian Beaufils. “What is marvelous about that?”
But one of his fellows said, “It’s not a bad suggestion, Badrian. The hour is growing late and for our presumption in setting out as only three we ought to return with something.”
“All right,” said Beaufils.
“We’ll watch,” said one of the Greens.
“Yes,” said Rose, feeling expansive with the issue won. “We’ll give you encouragement.”
They traveled in a large party up the streets to the Christian’s house. It was fronted by the blank face of his bell tower. There was an arched gate and a court within, but the gate was closed.
“Christians,” said Beaufils, looking at the closed gate. “They’re too exclusive. You notice there isn’t even a bell to signal the house.”
They milled about the street in front of the gate. Even if there had been a way to signal the house, it seemed that the Christian’s attention was on his chimes. They were ringing again.
“Is holiday, I think,” said Torve. He counted on four fingers three times. “Yes, is Twelfthtide. Old Christian day of holly. See you?” He held up his four fingers three times. “Is twelve.”
He called to his friends Zimmerman, Newman, Cohen, and Rose: “Do you know Epiphany song, ‘Twelve Days of Christmas’?”
“No,” they said. But they liked to sing in front of their fellows, so while the bells were ringing above them, Torve taught them the song—which, after all, has a simple tune and repetitive lyrics. They worked on their parts until the bells ceased and then they sang the song.
Torve’s memory of the words was imperfect, but the principle was clear, and he was followed by Rose, Zimmerman, Newman, and Cohen, and they by the rest of the Xochitl Sodality.
By the third “partridge in a pear tree” they had a visible witness in the bell tower. They persevered to the end of the song, however. And the man in the tower applauded.
Then Torve called up, “Hello. Is Wonders and Marvels night. Do you want to be a Marvel?”
“Me?” the man said. “You want me to be a Marvel? I never thought that would ever happen. Me a Marvel? How splendid. I’ll be right down to let you in.”
He came down and opened the gate. “Come in,” he said and Torve and all the Blues and Greens entered the courtyard. He was a ruddy little man and he said his name was Dodd.
“And I’m Badrian Beaufils. You’ll be our Wonder. We’re with Joralemon House. These other men are from Pierrepont.”
“My side is Joralemon?”
“That’s right.”
“Are you sure you mean me?”
“Oh, yes,” said Badrian Beaufils, feeling that an apology was owed. Then he offered, “I’ve always enjoyed your bells.”
“You have?” said Dodd. “I wasn’t sure that anyone listened. You really do?”
Several Sodality members, both Blues and Greens, assured him that they did. Dodd was delighted.
“Er, you are our first Christian,” said Badrian Beaufils. “Can you tell us your points of strength so that we can offer the best possible presentation?”
“Oh, but I’m not a Christian,” Dodd said.
“You’re not?”
“Oh, no. Not really. I’m a Christian historian. I don’t believe. I just keep track of things. Would you like to see my collection?”
They all agreed that they would, and Mr. Dodd took them inside. He apologized for the condition of things. The condition of things was largely piles. He got shipments of material all the time and never had it completely sorted.
He served them tea and biscuits while they looked. There were piles of surplices and wimples. There were candles and missals, collections plates, beads, lunules, censers, thuribles, aspergillums, and ciboria. The Xochitl Sodality found it a whole new world.
Then he took them to see his personal display. This room was much neater. He had a ring that had belonged to Pope Leo VIII, whose pontificate was disputed. He had a comparative wall chart of tonsure patterns. He had a religious scroll containing an apocryphal Christian gospel with an authenticated history all the way back to the beginning of the Common Era, and sufficient age to place its origin at the beginning of the era preceding. He had a putative piece of the True Cross, also of the proper age, and with a thousand years more documentation than the scroll.
“Is fascinating,” said Torve the Trog.
Before they were done viewing, Rose drew Badrian Beaufils aside and asked if he might not consider trading Wonders. He was thinking how effectively Dodd and his collection could be presented by a quartet singing “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” He didn’t even pause to consider from whom he had learned the song. Badrian Beaufils quite rightly turned him down out of loyalty to his friend Torve.
* * *
“I was expecting you at peelgrunt,” said Jules Parini.
“I was unavoidably detained, sir,” said Villiers. “I hope you weren’t inconvenienced.”
“Come in off the doorstep. We were at breakfast. Would you care to join us?”
“Thank you, no,” said Villiers. “I’ve eaten. Have the papers arrived?”
Parini said, “No, I’m sorry. The mails haven’t been delivered. I expect them at any moment. My sources tell me the delay may be due to some local Monist shenanigans. I was beginning to fear that you might have fallen into their hands.”
“As in fact I did,” said Villiers.
“Oh, that’s terrible.”
“Not really,” said Villiers. “I have no objection to Monists. They have an extremely good idea, but they are too single-minded about it. I won free quite honestly by touting my captors onto two willing astrologers whom all agree are far more marvelous than I—and more interested in the game. I did promise to attend the judging, if I find it possible.”
“Although I don’t have your papers,” said Parini, I do have news for you. I have the name of your assassin’s employer. Do you still have interest in it?”
“Yes, I do.”
“What was the figure we were speaking of?”
“The figure we were speaking of was twenty royals. However, sir, I have to tell you that the money was not where I expected to find it.”
“No?” Parini said suspiciously. He was not certain whether Villiers was bargaining with him, flighting him or speaking honestly.
“No. I lack the price of your information—unless you would apply my credit with you toward this assassin’s name. Are you sure the papers are on their way?”
“I am.”
“Then that presents a problem,” said Villiers. “I am a good deal less certain of ever coming together with my money.”
“Are you bargaining?” Parini asked. “You should realize that there is small room for bargain.”
“I recognize your price,” said Villiers. “I simply cannot presently meet it. Do you have immediate need for money?”
Parini was embarrassed by the question. He enjoyed boasting of the tuition payments at Miss McBurney’s as though they made small difference to his pocket. To admit of a need for money was painful, but still the prospect of a sojourn under the Winter-Summer Laws was even more painful to consider.
“Some small need,” Parini said. “Can you give me a draft, perhaps?”
This showed his incipient desperation. He didn’t usually speak of drafts to people who had dealt with him before and had some notion of what he did with drafts.
