Tiger! Tiger! (20 page)

Thus, the Morses (Telephones and Telegraph) wore nineteenth-century frock coats and the women wore Victorian hoop-skirts. The Skodas (Powder and Guns) harked back to the late eighteenth century, wearing Regency tights and crinolines. The daring Peenemundes (Rockets and Reactors), dating from the 1920's wore tuxedos, and the women unashamedly revealed legs, arms and necks in the decolletee of antique Worth and Mainbocher gowns.

Fourmyle of Ceres appeared in evening clothes, very modern and very black, relieved only by a white sunburst on his shoulder, the trademark of the Ceres clan. With him was Robin Wednesbury in a glittering white gown, her slender waist tight in whalebone, the bustle of the gown accentuating her long straight back and graceful step.

The black and white contrast was so arresting that an orderly was sent to check the sunburst trademark in the Almanack of Peerages and Patents. He returned with the news that it was of the Ceres Mining Company, organized in 2250 for the exploitation of the mineral resources of Ceres, Pallos and Vesta.

The resources had never manifested themselves and the House of Ceres had gone into eclipse but had never become extinct. Apparently it was now being revived.

'Fourmyle? The clown?'

`Yes. The Four Mile Circus. Everybody's talking about him.'

`Is that the same man?'

`Couldn't be. He looks human.' Society clustered around Fourmyle, curious but wary.

`Here they come,' Foyle muttered to Robin.

`Relax. They want the light touch. They'll accept anything if it's amusing. Stay tuned.' She prompted.

`Are you that dreadful man with the circus, Fourmyle?'

`Sure you are. Smile.' She prompted.

`I am, madam. You may touch me.'

`Why, you actually seem proud. Are you proud of your bad taste?'

'The problem today is to have any taste at all.' She prompted.

'The problem today is to have any taste at all. I think I'm lucky.'

`Lucky but dreadfully indecent.'

`Indecent but not dull.'

`And dreadful but delightful. Why aren't you cavorting now?'

`I'm "under the influence", Madam.'

`Oh dear. Are you drunk? I'm Lady Shrapnel. When will you be sober again?'

`I'm under your influence, Lady Shrapnel.'

`You wicked young man. Charles! Charles, come here and save Fourmyle. I'm ruining him.'

`That's Victor of R.C.A. Victor.' She prompted.

'Fourmyle, is it? Delighted. What's that entourage of yours cost?'

`Tell him the truth.' She prompted.

`Forty thousand, Victor.'

`Good Lord! A week?'

`A day.'

`My God! What on earth d'you want to spend all that money for?'

`The truth!' She prompted.

'For notoriety, Victor.'

`Ha! Are you serious?'

`I told you he was wicked, Charles.'

`Damned refreshing. Klaus! Here a moment. This impudent young man is spending forty thousand a day; for notoriety, if you please.'

`Skoda of Skoda.' She prompted.

`Good evening, Fourmyle. I am much interested in this revival of the name. You are, perhaps, a cadet descendant of the original founding board of Ceres, Inc?'

`Give him the truth.' She prompted.

`No, Skoda, It's a title by purchase. I bought the company. I'm an upstart.'

`Good. Toujours audace!'

'My word, Fourmyle! You're frank.'

`Told you he was impudent. Very refreshing. There's a parcel of damned upstarts about, young man, but they don't, admit it. Elizabeth, come and meet Fourmyle of Ceres.'

'Fourmyle! I've been dying to meet you.'

`Lady Elizabeth Citroen.'

`Is it true you travel with a portable college?'

`The light touch here.' She prompted.

`A portable high school, Lady Elizabeth.'

`But why on earth, Fourmyle?'

`Oh, Madam, it's so difficult to spend money these days. We have to find the silliest excuses. If only someone would invent a new extravagance.'

`You ought to travel with a portable inventor, Fourmyle.'

`I've got one. Haven't I, Robin? But he wastes his time on perpetual motion. What I need is a resident spendthrift. Would any of your clans care to lend me a younger son?'

`Welcome, by God! And there's many a clan would pay for the privilege of unloading.'

`Isn't perpetual motion spendthrift enough for you, Fourmyle?'

`No. It's a shocking waste of money. The whole point of extravagance is to act like a fool and feel like a fool, but enjoy it. Where's the joy in perpetual motion? Is there any extravagance in entropy? Millions for nonsense but not one cent for entropy. That's my slogan.'

They laughed and the crowd clustering around Fourmyle grew. They were delighted and amused. He was a new top. Then it was midnight, and as the great clock tolled in the New Year, the gathering prepared to jaunte with midnight around the world.

`Come with us to Java, Fourmyle. Regis Sheffield's giving a marvelous legal party. We're going to play "Sober The Judge".'

`Hong Kong, Fourmyle.'

`Tokyo, Fourmyle. It's raining in Hong Kong. Come to Tokyo and bring your circus.'

`Thank you, no. Shanghai for me. The Soviet Duomo. I promise an extravagant reward to the first one who discovers the deception of my costume. Meet you all in two hours. Ready, Robin?'

`Don't jaunte. Bad manners. Walk out. Slowly. Languor is chic. Respects to the Governor . . . To the Commissioner . . . Their Ladies . . . Bien. Don't forget to tip the attendants. Not him, idiot! That's the Lieutenant Governor. All right, you made a hit. You're accepted. Now what?'

`Now what we-came to Canberra for.'

`I thought we came for the ball'

`The ball and a man named Forrest.'

`Who's that?'

`Ben Forrest, spaceman off the Vorga. I've got three leads to the man who gave the order to let me die. Three names. A cook in Rome named Poggi; a quack in Shanghai named Orel; and this man, Forrest. This is a combined operation . . . society and search. Understand?'

`I understand.'

`We've got two hours to rip Forrest open. D'you know the co-ordinates of the Aussie Cannery? The Company Town?'

`I don't want any part of your Vorga revenge. I'm searching for my family.'

`This is a combined operation . . . every way,' he said with such detached savagery that she winced and at once jaunted. When Foyle arrived in his tent in the Four-Mile Circus on Jervis Beach, she was already changing into travel clothes. Foyle looked at her. Although he forced her to live in his tent for security reasons, he had never touched her again. Robin caught his glance, stopped changing and waited.

He shook his head. `That's all finished.'

`How interesting. You've given up rape?'

`Get dressed,' he said, controlling himself. `Tell them they've got two hours to get the camp up to Shanghai.'

It was twelve-thirty when Foyle and Robin arrived at the front office of the Aussie Cannery company town. They applied for identification tags and were greeted by the mayor himself.

`Happy New Year,' he caroled. `Happy! Happy! Happy! Visiting? A pleasure to drive you around. Permit me.'

He bundled them into a lush helicopter and took off. `Lots of visitors tonight. Ours is a friendly town. Friendliest company town in the world.'

The plane circled giant buildings. `That's our ice palace . . . Swimming baths on the left . . . Big dome is the ski-jump. Snow all year 'round . . . Tropical gardens under that glass roof. Palms, parrot, orchids, fruit. There's our market . . . theatre . . . got our own broadcasting company, too. 3D-SS. Take a look at the football stadium. Two of our boys made All-American this year. Turner at Right Rockne and Kowalsky at Left Heffilfinger.'

`Do tell,' Foyle murmured.

'Yessir, we've got everything. Everything. You don't have to jaunte around the world looking for fun. Aussie Cannery brings the world to you. Our town's a little universe. Happiest little universe in the world.'

`Having absentee problems, I see.'

The mayor refused to falter in his sales-pitch. `Look down at the streets. See those bikes? Motor-cycles? Cars? We can afford more luxury transportation per capita than any other town on earth. Look at those homes. Mansions. Our people are rich and happy. We keep 'em rich and happy.'

`But do you keep them?'

`What d'you mean? Of course we -'

`You can tell us the truth. We're not job prospects. Do you keep them?'

`Christ, we can't keep 'em more than six months,' the mayor groaned. `It's a hell of a headache, Mac. We give 'em everything but we can't hold on to 'em. They get the wanderlust and jaunte. Absenteeism's cut our production by twelve per cent. We can't hold on to steady labor.'

'Nobody can.'

`There ought to be a law. Forrest, you said? Right here.'

He landed them before a Swiss chalet set in an acre of gardens and took off, mumbling to himself. Foyle and Robin stepped before the door of the house, waiting for the monitor to pick them up and announce them. Instead, the door flashed red, and a white skull and crossbones appeared on it. A canned voice spoke:

`WARNING. THIS RESIDENCE IS MANTRAPPED BY THE LETHAL DEFENSE CORPORATION OF SWEDEN. R: 77-23. YOU HAVE BEEN LEGALLY NOTIFIED.'

`What the hell?' Foyle muttered. `On New Year's Eve? Friendly fella. Let's try the back.'

They walked around the chalet, pursued by the skull and crossbones flashing at intervals, and the canned warning. At one side, they saw the top of a cellar window brightly illuminated and heard the muffled chant of voices: `The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want . . .

'Cellar-Christians!'

Foyle exclaimed. He and Robin peered through the window. Thirty worshippers of assorted faiths were celebrating the New Year with a combined and highly illegal service. The twenty-fourth century had not yet abolished God, but it had abolished organized religion.

`No wonder the house is man-trapped,' Foyle said. `Filthy practices like that. Look, they've got a priest and a rabbi, and that thing behind them is a crucifix.'

`Did you ever stop to think what swearing is?' Robin asked quietly. `You say "Jesus" and "Jesus Christ", you know what that is?'

`Just swearing, that's all. Like "Ouch" or "Pshaw'

`No, it's religion. You don't know it, but there are two thousand years of meaning behind words like that'

`This is no time for dirty talk,' Foyle said impatiently. `Save it for later. Come on.'

The rear of the chalet was a solid wall of glass, the picture window of a dimly lit, empty living-room.