New Celebrations

by Alexei Panshin

  “We’re off to Mandracore,” Villiers said.

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” the student said.

  The second yagoot said, “I might as well be going now. Torve. Ralph. Excuse me.” He went his way, striding briskly off under the mother-of-pearl skies. However, before he was out of sight he began to skip.

  The student folded his notebook. “I’m John Kettleborough. I’m studying Renovation Theory, but I’m really a poet.”

  Sergei stirred uneasily.

  “Anthony Villiers,” Villiers said. “And Sergei Gilfillian.”

  The yagoot said, “Ralph Weinsider. I sing. I’ve got perfect pitch.” He sang a more-than-acceptable chorus of “Dawn Passage” to show that he could.

  John said, “I was going to say that this has been the most stimulating night of my life. I can see that it’s been that for you, too.”

  There was cinnamon in his voice. Ah, but you know—students and yagoots.

  Ralph nodded. “It has been. Nobody like Torve ever comes here. I wish you were staying longer. Say, would it be possible to chip in on the cost of the flitter and go out to the spaceport with you?”

  “Me, too,” John said belligerently.

  “Of course, you, too, John. I meant you, too.”

  Villiers considered the suggestion and then said, “Certainly. Come along, gentlemen.” He looked around him. “I had a book. Let’s see, it was there, I think.”

  But plainly it was not where Villiers had left it. The trouble with books as pets is they can never completely be trusted.

  After a moment, Ralph said in a subdued voice, “Fillmore took it.”

  “Your friend stole my book? Morgenstern? Color Selection in Galactic Pantography?”

  “Yes,” said Ralph. “We all matched for it. He won.”

  “You, too, John?”

  John nodded.

  “But why Morgenstern? I’ll never find another copy of that around here.”

  “That’s just it,” John said. “Admiral Beagle would never allow that radical a book to be sold.”

  “Radical?” Villiers said. And, “Admiral Beagle?”

  “Censorship,” said John.

  “He’s my Uncle Walter,” said Ralph, in apology.

  “He won’t allow anything but Mrs. Waldo Wintergood stories.”

  “He’s married to my mother’s sister.”

  “There’s nothing going on around here, and he’s the reason.”

  “That’s right,” Ralph said, and John seemed half-pleased at the agreement. Half-pleased.

  * * *

  At the spaceport, Villiers bought some compromise clothes and rented a room. The compromise was between style and availability, with the emphasis on availability. While Villiers was changing, Torve wandered away in company with Ralph and John. That left Villiers to do his own hanging and draping.

  When Villiers was satisfied with his appearance, he placed a vid call to Lord Broccoli’s residence. The call was received by Broccoli’s loyal family robot, Morris.

  “Sir, we were worried,” Morris said.

  “No need to worry, Morris,” Villiers said. “But thank you for your concern. Will you please convey my regards to Lord Broccoli? He will recall that I mentioned an uncle in ill health on Duden. I regret to say that my uncle has died and it is imperative that I travel immediately to settle his affairs.”

  Villiers arranged for his considerable baggage to be shipped to him in care of Mr. Jackson Blinoff on Duden. Then he placed a second call. “Ahem,” he said, and stood tall. The woman who came on the screen was thin and tired, but he fancied there was a resemblance in feature to Sergei.

  “Mrs. Gilfillian,” he said, “I am Lord Charteris.”

  Such was his skill in being Lord Charteris when occasion demanded that she believed him implicitly—as would you, too. There are schools that can teach you to be a lord—if you are not one naturally—if they are given you in charge at a sufficiently early age. In sum, to be a lord is to be arrogant and selfish with such style that people are delighted to be of service to you.

  “Yes?” said Mrs. Gilfillian, putting a hand to her throat.

  The trouble with most lords is that they can be nothing else. Villiers, on the other hand, was Villiers far more often than he was Charteris. Though he had a certain natural arrogance, he found Charteris difficult to maintain for extended periods.

  Villiers said, “I’m passing through Shiawassee on my way to Mandracore, and I had the good fortune to meet your son Sergei yesterday.”

  “Oh,” she said, brightening. “Oh.”

  * * *

  Torve the Trog, with Ralph and John a respectful quarter pace behind at either heel, walked slowly along the terrace. He was neither a Peripatetic nor a Sedentary to be teaching the waggings of the world to dewy youth. However, he was charisma being followed by two non-reflecting surfaces.

  The terrace overlooked the landing field—a nappy green divided into boxes by marching rows of bushes, trees and tharve clumps. In each box there was the metallic lacework of a landing web. Three of the webs had prey clutched in their sticky fingers: the newly arrived ship for Duden, the ship for Mandracore, and the little Intrasystem Excursion for Pewamo, a hop, skip, and a jump down the way.

  Both Ralph and John were feeling pleasantly foggy, the result of the morning heat, lack of sleep, and the stimulation of Torve’s presence. John owed Ralph one thaler twenty, his fifth of the flitter ride.

  Here they are:

  John Kettleborough was tall, lean, sensitive and suspicious. He was a would-be poet frustrated for lack of an audience. Would-be poets can be frustrated that way. Eyes bright, inset in dull circlets. Handkerchief tied round his neck. He was beginning to think Ralph wasn’t so bad for a yagoot.

  Ralph Weinsider wasn’t so bad, for a yagoot. Medium height, slightly pudgy, monied, neither particularly bright nor sensitive, but a generous, likable fellow. More a watcher than a creator, but very interested in having someone to watch.

  The terrace led back to the many-steepled Port House. It was an excellent example of petrified architecture, made of stone as it was.

  “Thurb,” said Torve the Trog abruptly. Then, with more confidence, “Thurb.” It was rounded, beautiful and wholly other. The scraps, mistrials, and detritus of composition were all behind him.

  An artist should never be observed while refining his materials, any more than a politician should be judged by anything he says while trying to find out which way the wind is blowing. Nonetheless, Torve’s disciples had come to him in his least impressive moment. And this seems proper, somehow, for karma incarnate.

  Now Ralph and John were being rewarded for their faith with the true, polished, effulgent Frobb, an alien art that satisfied a taste previously unrealized. The building curve added resonance to Torve’s delivery.

  Not everyone had the wit or taste to appreciate Torve’s bass line, however. We know that Villiers was one such, and Sergei Gilfillian had not responded with anything close to appropriate enthusiasm. However, if they were not inspired to applaud, neither were they inspired to object. Such a critic now appeared, however.

  Torve had stopped just outside the Port House. A square, over-furious man in uniform opened the door and yelled.

  “Hey, now, stop that! Ralph Weinsider, what are you doing?”

  Ralph said, “It’s my uncle! Goodbye, Torve.” He ran.

  John took one startled look and decided honorable retreat was in order. He didn’t pause to say goodbye, but did wave his hand.

  There were stairs between the Port House and the terrace leading down to the field and the lower levels of the building. Ralph and John took the stairs in threes, a magical number for fast escapes. Torve, abandoned, took no notice. He continued to provide Shiawassee with wider parameters of art—which is to say:

  “Thurb.”

  * * *

  Sergei was so pleased at learning that his front door would be open to him that night that Villiers had a problem getting his attention.


  “I mean to say, thanks, Mr. Villiers,” Sergei said. “Are you really a viscount?”

  Villiers said, “What good is a title if you don’t put it to good use? I have a favor to ask of you. A friend of mine just came in and I’d like a word with him. Here’s the money for two tickets to Mandracore. Will you get them for me?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  Villiers watched Sergei approach the proper counter and then turned. He crossed the room and said, “Mr. Guillaume.”

  Guillaume—ah, Mr. Guillaume. His nerves were not good.

  “Damn it, Mr. Villiers,” he said. “Don’t do that.”

  “What did I do?”

  “You’re here. You shouldn’t be here—that’s stretching things too far. You don’t know what a start you gave me.”

  Villiers said, “People do seem to collect in backwaters like the Tanner Trust. Next time I think I’ll head for civilization to hide.”

  Guillaume looked around. “This is pretty hideous, isn’t it?”

  If this conversation lacks the elegant formality one expects of exchanges between men of quality, know that circumstances here were not of the common run. And, as my mother was always secretly sure, if you catch the wellborn in an unguarded moment they talk just like everybody else.

  Villiers said, “How are you doing?”

  “I don’t know. One moment I think Finch is behind me, the next he’s ahead. Now all I’m doing is running and hoping I’ll last. I suppose you have things as well-controlled as usual.”

  “Not this time,” Villiers said. “I’m only one step ahead. I had to spend last night in a park.

  “There was a time I’d have found that shocking.”

  “Yes—well, we all change. I wouldn’t worry too much, sir. Somebody tried to kill me two years ago—the sort of mistake that you can’t predict—and I lived through it without even the necessity of surgery. Think how much better off you are knowing what to expect.”

  “Every minute I stand still I feel nervous,” Guillaume said. “I have to leave. Luck, Villiers.”

  “Good luck.”

  The speakers announced the commencement of boarding of the Pewamo Intrasystem Excursion. Villiers, his new tickets for Mandracore in his pocket, stepped up to the counter.

  “I’m Lord Charteris,” he said to the clerk. “You’re holding two tickets to Duden for me.”

  * * *

  Admiral Walter Beagle, N.S.N. (Ret.)—yes, that Admiral Beagle; you have heard of him—waved his fist contentedly. His nephew and the other harum-scarum with him disappeared down a flight of stairs but the Admiral did not pursue them. He hadn’t the wind for it. Instead he turned to the nearest target of opportunity. That was Torve, rapt in his search for inner truth: “Thurb.”

  The Admiral was a failure. He was a peripheral member of an important family. His career had been without distinction. And he wasn’t really an admiral—he was a commodore with a courtesy promotion upon retirement.

  One of the Admiral’s main sources of pride was that he had never sold out. This was true in the grossest sense, but only because no one had made him an offer when he was young, and now that he was older he was too stiff to bend.

  He had the suppressed passions of a bank clerk, indirectly expressed in several ways, of which belligerence was one and conservatism was another. Since his conservatism happened to match that of the Administrator of the Tanner Trust, and since he was a member of the family, on his retirement from the Navy he had acceded to the chairmanship of the Trust Arts Council—which is to say, the position of censor. He was happy in his work. He was regarded as an enthusiastic but harmless oddity by those whose business it is to adjudge the universal pecking order. He was a passive bother to a bored but unaware populace. He was an active bother to a student here, a yagoot there, and an occasional nephew—but most of all he was an active bother to transients at the Shiawassee Port House. He conceived it to be sport and part of his duty in spare moments to harass travelers who deviated from the Shiawassee standard, which standard he knew precisely because it was his own.

  You will understand, then, that it was perfectly in order for him to stand in front of Torve, whose ululations he found not only bizarre but unattractive, turn purple and yell, “Stop that, you furry jackanapes!” The making of artistic judgments was both what he did and what he was.

  But understand, too, that Torve had other needs. What he did and what he was, was, “Thurb.”

  It seems proper, an expression of cosmic order, that Torve should go “Thurb,” and that Admiral Beagle should turn purple and yell. However, I think it was overthrowing order as well as a breach of courtesy for Admiral Beagle to lift his right foot, kick Torve in the leg, and yell, “Weren’t you taught a lesson at Aleph Wall?”—that being the final Trog defeat in the Helix-Antihelix-Tragus-Conch-Lobus War.

  Torve uttered a few final booming throbs. “Was almost finished,” he said.

  “Stand to, Trog,” the Admiral ordered. “Let me see your papers.”

  Since the Trogs’ defeat, they had been confined to two solar systems as Restricted Aliens. Only a large handful had the necessary papers to travel, and Torve was not of their number. Nonetheless, he traveled. If braced and found without proper authorization, Torve was subject to penalties of enormous severity. Nevertheless, he traveled.

  Torve was often asked for his papers a first time, seldom a second, never a third. That was all.

  * * *

  There was a second call for Pewamo as Villiers, in search of Torve, came upon Admiral Beagle jumping up and down and yelling about barbarism, and Torve blandly nodding in time to his jumps. Somehow the ground of discussion had changed without Admiral Beagle’s awareness.

  “Sir,” Villiers said, nodding to Admiral Beagle. “Torve, it’s time to go.”

  “Are you in charge of this creature?” the Admiral demanded.

  “No, sir,” Villiers said. “He is in charge of himself.”

  “Well, are you leaving the Tanner Trust? He doesn’t seem to know.”

  “I’m leaving the Tanner Trust. You’ll have to ask him where he’s going.”

  Beagle swelled. “I just told you. He doesn’t know or he won’t say.”

  Villiers shrugged helplessly.

  Beagle said. “If he leaves the Tanner Trust now, there will be no charges. Otherwise, it’s jail. There are laws against unlicensed public performance.”

  Villiers said, “You must be Admiral Beagle. Your name is widely spoken. Sir, could you do me a considerable service? In your position as censor, you must read many books. Can you recommend something for me to read on the ship?”

  Slowly, Admiral Beagle said, “Well, I’ve personally always admired the books of Mrs. Waldo Wintergood. They’re primarily intended for young folk, but they make wholesome reading for the whole family.”

  “Thank you,” said Villiers. “I’ll look for them.”

  The announcement system advised passengers for Mandracore to gather for transport to the ship. Villiers nodded at the sound.

  “There we are,” said Villiers. “Time for me to go.”

  “Is my ship, too,” said Torve.

  Admiral Beagle looked at Torve with considerable suspicion, but made no objection to his departure. He had a curious feeling of having come down on the wrong foot. He was used to harassing humans, but aliens were outside his ordinary province, and he wasn’t sure whether he had won a proper moral victory or not.

  Villiers said, “I talked to Morris. A good robot, considering his model. Hold here for a moment.”

  They stopped beside a stall where a fac machine was producing books at twenty-second intervals.

  “Sir, have you books by Mrs. Waldo Wintergood?” Villiers asked.

  “Of course,” said the operator. He pointed to a set of five on display.

  Villiers thumbed through one, and then bought all five. They were hardly Morgenstern, but they looked readable.

  “My children swear by them,” the operator said.
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  They paused a second time. Villiers stopped Sergei Gilfillian’s baggage dray.

  “We’re leaving now,” Villiers said.

  “Goodbye, sir. Thank you again. Goodbye, Torve.”

  “Goodbye,” said Torve.

  “A thought occurred to me,” Villiers said to Sergei. “Some friends are looking for me. If they should become misdirected, they may ask questions of you. Feel free to tell them all you know.”

  They paused one last time, a hesitation in stride only, as Villiers salaamed to another acquaintance.

  “Mr. Finch,” he said.

  “Mr. Villiers.”

  It was the mutual salute of respect of men bound in opposite directions, one hunting, one being hunted. Then Villiers and Torve boarded the transport car to be driven out to their ship.

  * * *

  The orange transport car rolled along the sun-bleached roadway to the Port House. Ralph and John were in a tie as they reached the bottom of the stair, still tied when they dashed in front of the car, but Ralph fell well behind before they reached the foot of the matching stair on the other side of the Port House. The transport car, unperturbed, rolled into position to receive a second load of passengers for the Pewamo Redball.

  Ralph trudged up to the stair, stopped, took a deep breath, turned and plunked. Then he panted.

  John, less winded and interested in establishing the point, said in as concerned a voice as he could muster, “Shouldn’t we keep running?”

  “Why? Uncle Walter knows where to find me. Uncle Walter will find me.”

  “Well,” said John, looking down, “at least he doesn’t know who I am.”

  “Oh, he’ll browbeat that out of me.” Ralph nodded his head in self-confirmation. “Yes. I’d tell.”

  “In that case,” John said, staring at palms held like an open book in front of him, and then abruptly snapping the pages closed, “we’ll have to think of something.”

  He sat down at Ralph’s left. Both of them fell into thinking postures. Neither of them did any thinking, the result of a combination of lack of sleep and hyperventilation.

  After a few minutes, John said, “What are we supposed to be thinking about?”

  Ralph wasn’t tracking enough to process the question. Sleep, stupor, call it what you will. He caught up to the question the third time it was asked and answered it just in time to forestall a fourth.