New Celebrations

by Alexei Panshin

  Her mind was busy, busy, busy. First act, only.

  * * *

  It was raining on Yuten when Villiers and Torve left the Navy cruiser there. It was the rain of early summer, cool and peltering, and it made splashing circles, quickly gone, on the hard white surface of the field. The rain was wind-driven and irregular. Torve’s fur began to mat as it grew wetter.

  “It feels good, doesn’t it?” Villiers said, as he bent against the wind.

  A constant absence of weather is bound to be a bore. After several weeks in travel, it always seems pleasant to feel wind and rain, to see the lightest of gray skies and dark little moving cloud ghosts, to walk on muddy ground and have the mud stick to your shoes.

  They were the only passengers to depart. The rain was slackening as they reached the port terminal. The sun poured through a rent in the gray fabric and lit the tented world from within. The grayness of the world had a momentary glow and the puddles glistened.

  There was the usual delay in Torve’s clearance, settled in the usual way, at the usual cost in time. While they were waiting, Villiers was recognized by Lord Hawkwood’s cheetah.

  “Viscount Charteris,” the man said, hurrying up. “Lord Hawkwood would be pleased for your company. An extremely pleasant week, I assure you. The affair is already gathering. No sharpers, no dubs, and it is winter now on his Kirkie estates in the south. The sport is excellent, as I make no doubt you will remember from last year.”

  “No,” Villiers said. “I missed the occasion last year.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” the cheetah said. He spent his time at Yuten’s sole spaceport when Lord Hawkwood directed to let the right arriving people know where the action was. Common practice. “In that case, it would be a shame, a shame, if you were not to be present this year.”

  “Could you excuse me for a moment?” Villiers asked.

  “You will consider?”

  “Of course, sir.” Villiers turned away as another cheetah he did not recognize rushed up.

  “Sir, Mr. Graftoon’s compliments, and could you favor—”

  “A moment, if you will,” Villiers said.

  He left the cheetahs strutting and preening at each other and favoring Torve with dubious looks. Torve stood flat-footedly and waited.

  Villiers found the general mail center in the terminal and went inside. It was half-asleep, lulled perhaps by the rain.

  A single clerk was working behind the counter. He looked up as Villiers entered.

  Villiers said, “Good day, sir. Would mail sent to Yuten as a general address be delivered here?”

  “Yes, sir. It would.”

  “Would you check then and see if there is any mail for me? My name is Villiers.”

  The clerk nodded and walked to his left out of Villiers’ sight. Villiers craned, but could not see him. It is hard to trust somebody to be doing something correctly when you can’t see him doing it.

  After a minute the clerk said, “You did say Villiers?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Don’t see anything for anybody of that name back here.” He followed his voice out to the counter. “Were you expecting something in particular, or are you just hoping?”

  “Something in particular. It should be coming from Morian, sir. And it will have a mark like this on it.” Villiers sketched his personal mail symbol.

  “Morian, you say. Well, hold on a second. A ship is just in from Star Well.”

  “Star Well?” Villiers said, raising his eyebrows.

  “Yes. It could have mail from Morian. Star Well is the hub of the Rift, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Just hold on.”

  The clerk turned and entered the maze of sorting bins, carts and boxes, ruck and clutter. There was a man at work back there, so colorless that he blended into the postal operation as one more piece of standard equipment. The clerk started him up and he performed some sort of intricate native function. When the clerk turned, he had a number of pieces of mail in his hands. He sorted through them as he returned to the counter.

  He came to an envelope and leaned away from it to get a better look. “Hmm,” he said. “Villiers. Have you got identification?”

  “I just described that envelope,” Villiers said.

  “Yes,” said the clerk, “but somebody might have told you what it looks like. I’ve got to have identification.”

  Villiers identified himself several times and received in turn the envelope.

  “Fresh off the boat,” the clerk said.

  “From Star Well.”

  “Yes.”

  “There must be a moral there somewhere. Thank you.” It was the usual amount, little and late. Villiers looked at it, sighed, and then returned to Torve and the pair of cheetahs.

  “My best to Mr. Graftoon,” he said, “but I’m afraid that my company is already spoken for.”

  He smiled pleasantly and Graftoon’s hawk sighed and gestured and withdrew.

  Villiers nodded to Lord Hawkwood’s man. “Lead on, if you will.”

  * * *

  Of the men trapped by Villiers and Adams within Star Well, all but one were taken into custody with ease. Some had already agreed to terms and the others knew well enough how nonsensical it would be to hold hostages or don a space suit and hide in a crevice on the surface. These would only delay the inevitable.

  Star Well was closed for a short time by its owners, who declared their surprise and shock at the actions of the manager they had trusted. They stated, however, that they saw no point in not taking advantage of the improvements he had added, and when Star Well opened again, it had three operating ports and enjoyed an immediate happy rise in the use of its warehouse facilities.

  The one missing man was Hisan Bashir Shirabi.

  He was not killed. He was not captured. He did not escape. He was never seen again in Star Well. He simply disappeared.

  Shhh.

  Listen. Listen to the rock. Put your ear against it. Is that the echo of secret tunneling? That was years ago, years ago.

  Might it be the careful sound of secret purple footsteps?

  End Book I

  Art, murder, Admiral Beagle and the Fascination of the Gawk figure in the second Anthony Villiers novel, The Thurb Revolution. Watch for it.

  Book II: The Thurb Revolution

  for Bob Briney

  and Jack Myers

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

  1

  Night 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, bu
t 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 obs
ervers.

  “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.