New Celebrations

by Alexei Panshin

  “Anthony, listen!” said Finch. “You’re in danger, and we’ve come to warn you. Solomon ‘Biff’ Dreznik is out there in the night. I fear he means you injury.”

  “Dreznik? Here?”

  “Yes.”

  “You two go away,” said the plonk. “Now, Villiers, my patience is wearing very very thin.”

  Villiers cocked his head and looked at Finch. “Philip,” he said, “you aren’t trying to mislead me, are you? I’m aware that you want to win.”

  “I do, but not that much.”

  “This is suspicious news for you to arrive with.”

  “It’s true.”

  Guillaume nodded. “Mr. Villiers, Dreznik was watching you from the meadow this afternoon. You had better run while you can.”

  Villiers checked his curdler, turning its charge to “Lethal.” “I won’t run,” he said. “I’m safest right here.”

  The angered plonk began to swoop at them all, and the audience cheered. They were enjoying themselves thoroughly.

  A loud sproing behind them caused them to turn. The cheers for Claude turned into spontaneous applause. Above their heads, Kuukkinen nodded in acknowledgment. It was the only thing a graceful man could do.

  * * *

  Villiers turned back to Finch. “Did you encounter Mr. Kuukkinen in the meadow, too?”

  When the applause had died, he called, “Good evening, Mr. Kuukkinen.”

  Kuukkinen said, “Look out behind you, Mr. Villiers.”

  Dreznik stood high on the rock, a looming presence out of the night and darkness. He pointed at the dangling Kuukkinen.

  “Your traps aren’t good enough for me, Villiers.” In the sudden silence his voice rang loud. People checked the time, but it was neither twenty before the hour nor twenty after by either the time of Shiawassee or by the time of Pewamo, and there were watches reporting both in the audience. It was a garden-variety silent moment.

  “Your luck has run out,” Dreznik said. “Solomon ‘Biff’ Dreznik is here. Prepare to meet your end.”

  He leveled a curdler. He really wasn’t a very nice man.

  Ralph, who was reasonably sure that curdler-levelling was not a proper part of the evening, reared back bravely and prepared to throw his mandolin. Villiers made a motion for his own curdler, which he had replaced, and doubted his chances.

  The day, however, was saved by Claude the Plonk. But, after all, if you are God, you have responsibilities.

  He flew straight at Dreznik. “What’s the matter with you?” he yelled. “Have you no respect for the Lord, thy God? At the very least, you could all be quiet until I’ve finished speaking.”

  Dreznik flinched, stepped back, lost his balance and had to jump for another foothold. That was Villiers’ trap, and it went sproing. The crowd went oooh.

  Now, mark you, Dreznik stepped into a trap that he knew was there. You may think this strange, but in fact the trap that he knew was precisely the trap that he was most likely to spring. He was that sort of man.

  Dreznik swayed back and forth in his rope cradle with none of the instant accommodation to his situation that Kuukkinen had shown. Kuukkinen had stuck his legs through the ropes and was swinging back and forth as he watched all. Dreznik wasn’t up to that. His curdler was lost in the rocks below him. The plonk hovered just in front of him and he huddled.

  “Ky-eee,” yelled Admiral Beagle, sending all eyes across the campsite. He charged toward Villiers, red-gleaming sword whirling high.

  Before he got to the fire and had to make the practical decision of over, around, or through, Ralph sprang into his path, mandolin held at the ready. It was a magnificent testament to his new manhood. The Admiral, not even considering explanations to his wife and her sister, brought the sword sweeping around and down.

  The sapling hadn’t done anything silly like sticking a mandolin in the way. On its circle, the sword encountered the instrument, snapped strings and smashed it to flinders.

  The overhead splitting stroke was intended to halve Ralph in the manner of Roland and Oliver and other over-muscled heroes of old, but it didn’t. When the mandolin was torn from Ralph’s hand, he ducked. Admiral Beagle’s momentum carried him forward. Perhaps he should have practiced running at his sapling instead of planting his feet solidly before he swung. The sword passed beyond Ralph, and the Admiral’s knees were knocked from beneath him. His elbows struck the ground. His sword flew from his hands.

  Ralph, tripped over and landed upon, went woof.

  The Admiral sprawled heavily on the ground, and a bicycle ran over him from behind. This was not the deliberate intention of Clifford Morgenstern, but an accident of the moment. He claimed later that it was more, but he was fibbing. The bicycle went one way and Morgenstern the other.

  There was a magnificent moment of silence. Then Admiral Beagle dazedly pulled himself to his feet and stood alone amidst the wreckage.

  The audience burst into wild applause, the loudest of the evening. If this was the wave of the future in dramatic art, they liked it. As said earlier, tastes can be educated. Exposure is the important thing.

  “That’s Mrs. Waldo Wintergood,” the plonk said in confidential tones.

  “Admiral Beagle?” Villiers asked. Admiral Beagle?

  “Of course,” said the plonk. “The eye of God knows all.”

  “Are you really God?” Dreznik asked from his swaying ropes.

  “Of course,” said the plonk. “I am the Lord, thy God. Whoever believes in me shall not perish, but have everlasting life.”

  “Really?” asked Dreznik.

  “Do you doubt the word of God?”

  “No, no,” said Dreznik. “I believe. I do believe.”

  “Do you really?” asked the plonk.

  * * *

  Clifford Morgenstern picked himself up from the ground and faced Admiral Beagle. Admiral Beagle returned the look. Ralph Weinsider looked at an interwoven sword and bicycle. He wondered if there wasn’t a place for it in the New Art.

  “Are you Admiral Beagle?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Morgenstern looked him up and down. “You’re not so much,” he said.

  He reached up—short as the Admiral was, Morgenstern was shorter; he was shorter than anybody, shorter than Napoleon even—and struck Beagle with a sharp hand.

  Beagle looked at him with a puzzled expression. One expects an introduction before being run over by a bicycle. A slap without an introduction is definitely bad ton.

  Morgenstern said, “You’re the one who has been interfering with my brown. You’re a barbarian. A philistine. You deserve a thrashing.”

  “Do you believe you’re the man to do it?” Admiral Beagle demanded. He was a man of action. He knew when he was being challenged.

  “I do.”

  With that they fell to pummeling each other. After a moment, they fell into a double grasp, strained with each other valiantly, and at last rolled to the ground. They went tumbling off the path and into the brush where they were lost to sight. However, the sound of their titanic struggle—a muted thrashing—could still be heard.

  * * *

  Villiers slowly looked about him. Sword, bicycle, mandolin fragments, Guillaume, Finch, Smetana, Ralph, the audience, Kuukkinen, Claude the Plonk, Dreznik, Fred, Gillian.

  He looked again at Dreznik and sighed. Unfortunately, assassins never talk. It’s against the rules of the profession. A matter of honor.

  And who would want to kill a nice man like Villiers? That’s a question to take some thinking on.

  He looked at Torve. “All right. Now,” he said.

  Torve’s performance was easily the high point of the evening. Even Villiers found it enjoyable. Perhaps the experience of playing with the master had widened his appreciation.

  Late that night, when they were all nearly asleep, there was a third sproing. It proved to be an injudicious catamount.

  “There,” Villiers said, gesturing. “I told you I would catch a behemoth.”

  13
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br />   Villiers said goodbye to Finch, Kuukkinen and Guillaume at Shiawassee Spaceport.

  “Are you sure you won’t change your mind about coming back to Yuten with us?” Kuukkinen asked.

  “I think not,” Villiers said.

  “Damn it,” said Finch, “it won’t be half the contest without you.”

  “Thank you,” said Villiers, “but if someone is seriously attempting to have me killed, I think I’d better not play High Tag. I can’t afford the confusion. Convey my regards to Lord Hawkwood.”

  Finch said, “And give our best to Lord Broccoli.”

  “Say hello to Morris,” said Guillaume.

  On his way through the Port House, Villiers encountered Sergei Gilfillian. Sergei waved frantically.

  “Sergei,” Villiers said. “Have you eaten? I was about to eat.”

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t.”

  “Don’t hang back, Sergei.”

  Sergei fell into step beside him. “I wanted to ask a favor of you, sir.”

  “By all means.”

  Sergei held out a piece of paper. “I can’t show this to anyone else. Will you read this for me?”

  Villiers took the paper. It was a poem.* He remembered Sergei flinching when the subject of poetry was mentioned.

  Sergei said, “I used a pseudonym.”

  “I see you did,” said Villiers. “Very interesting.”

  “Is it any good?”

  Villiers shook his head. “I’m not the man to say. It may be very good. If I might suggest, I do know a place to try sending it.”

  “You mean for publication?”

  “Yes,” said Villiers. “If you recall the gentlemen we shared a flitter with, they have started publishing a magazine, The Green Mountain Review. Send your poem to Ralph Weinsider, Green Mountain Resort, Binkin Island, Pewamo. If it meets his editorial standards he’ll use it.”

  “But he’s a yagoot,” said Sergei.

  “He’s an editor first and a yagoot second,” said Villiers. “Now let’s have lunch.”

  * * *

  Caspar Smetana found that Maimonides had said nothing useful on the arts, and personally hadn’t enjoyed them much. As a substitute, he and Daisy polished up some of their best material and Ralph used that instead.

  In the process of criticizing Admiral Beagle, Clifford Morgenstern broke his left thumb—but criticism always has its risks. His pain was soothed by the eager reception he was given by the Green Mountain Gang. As soon as his thumb healed sufficiently, Morgenstern began signing autographs. For a while on Shiawassee, until the market became glutted, a genuine Morgenstern autograph was worth money.

  Within days of his part in the Maude Binkin Review, Admiral Beagle was served with orders recalling him to active duty in the N.S.N. He was surprised, as well he might have been, but not displeased, even though he was put to work in Supply. Again.

  There were a few sour souls who were pleased to see him go. These were the sort of people who feel that there ought to be a Navy, if for no other reason than to serve as a way of removing undesirables from society. On this point, they were in agreement with those who had recalled Admiral Beagle to active duty.

  Beagle was bothered by the new success of the Mrs. Waldo Wintergood books that rapidly followed. He was particularly resentful because their widespread success was based on what he felt to be a total misreading. He indignantly refused the offer of a symbolic pornography book club to make his books a children’s selection. (For he was Mrs. Waldo Wintergood.)

  It is common knowledge that an author has no better understanding of his books than anyone else. And, in some cases, less. Poor Admiral Beagle.

  * * *

  Solomon “Biff” Dreznik retired from his profession and spurned all offers intended to make him change his mind.

  “I have found a better life,” he said, and no one could doubt the ethereal look on his face.

  He disappeared from the normal haunts of man, and was only seen from time to time at a distance by tourists and campers on Binkin Island. He followed his God through meadow and forest, and leaped barefoot crags, high on the slopes of Mount Binkin. Report once had him on Mount Seymour, but I don’t credit the story.

  *To a Teacup Held for Murder

  Fragile white-boned

  Simpering smiler,

  Beflowered cousin

  Of honest steins and tankards:

  You smirk and say

  That you were poured into,

  And are hardly responsible

  For anything that followed.

  Do you expect this jury

  To accept that?

  Come, come sir:

  You must know better.

  There is no excuse—

  The law is clear:

  Containers are accountable

  For what they contain.

  —Flanders Modrian

  End Book II

  Who would want to kill a nice man like Villiers? Amidst courtliness and crime, love and The Descent into Respectability, he finds out on a Night of Wonders and Marvels in the third Anthony Villiers novel, Masque World. Following soon.

  Book III: Masque World

  FOR LEE HOFFMAN

  AND CHIP DELANY

  Early in 1463 of the Common Era. On Delbalso, a semi-autonomic dependency of the Nashuite Empire.

  1

  Castle Rock rises above the town, out of the town, a massive block, a monolith. There is a steep slope behind the last gabled peak of buildings, possible to climb when green, less likely in white. And then the face of the block—black by night, and then a marbled gray-white, white and then orange, orange and then black—but always impossible. There is a door at the foot of Castle Rock and a road that leads down into the town.

  To the handful of Empire administrators, petty officials and janitors who live within Castle Rock, it is “The Castle.” They take that seriously, and by a metaphorical transposition of their physical situation, they imagine themselves looming large in local lives, which, of course, they don’t. Since in the main they do not venture outside, they are seldom disabused.

  To the people of the town, Castle Rock is “The Rock.” The janitors are an unknown quantity, since they do so seldom venture out of their fastness. The rock itself is a physical presence, a common fact, a landmark to be kept on the left when going out, and the right hand returning.

  It can hardly be ignored, but it is only a rock, and, as you can imagine, the people of the town have difficulty mustering inordinate respect for an object held in such easy contempt by birds.

  The charterboat landed on Castle Rock when the red sun was at the cold world’s edge and the Rock was orange, its best and brightest face, its brave smile bravely held in the face of coming dark. Two passengers with small luggage debarked. The wind whipped at them and then they went within the Rock.

  * * *

  Every human being who has ever lived has extended the range of the species. There isn’t one among us who hasn’t thought, said, or done something unique. New ideas, new recipes, new fashions. New tunes, new games, new places for people to play. Since Jerzy McBe was human, he, too, had extended the range of the species, but not by much. He had his limitations.

  He was one of the janitors of Empire, thin, brown, and at the end of unused youth. His job was uninteresting and he performed it inadequately. He inspected the papers of travelers to Delbalso and he inspected the papers of those departing. He had done the work for two years and not only had he not earned a promotion to more agreeable labor, he now knew less about his business than the day he started.

  He finished checking through the family party leaving on the charterboat. Man, one; wives, two; children, four—and the crated remnants of several generations of summering on Delbalso. McBe had checked this same family on at least three previous occasions, but they were not among the very few in the world whom McBe recognized at sight. Their name was in his hand, where he knew where to find it, not in his mind, which was a less ordered place. The name was Gramineous
.

  The family had rather more baggage this time, as had the majority of those leaving Delbalso these days. To McBe it just seemed like a lot of baggage. The passage of the Winter-Summer Laws had escaped his attention. He slept with a night light and he had never set foot outside the Castle.

  “Have a good trip,” he said, handing the man’s name back. To inbound travelers, he said, “Have a nice stay.” But he still hadn’t been outside the Castle.

  McBe checked the time. He had a schedule, and the closer he came to keeping it, the safer he felt.

  There were two passengers from the charterboat. One was a young man, well-born, well-dressed, but unprepossessing. Behind him was a large alien, brown, furry, and friendly in appearance. McBe didn’t trust appearances, and he didn’t like aliens. His immediate superior was an alien of a different kind and his attentions had always made McBe nervous.

  “Papers,” said McBe.

  The young man reached a slight hand within his coat. He was small and lean and his nose and cheekbones were prominent. His long brown hair was caught and tied, the prisoner of a light green ribbon. He wore a serviceable cloak and simple clean ruffles.

  “My papers, sir,” he said, presenting the narrow maroon booklet.

  McBe didn’t like his manner, so he took the papers and leaned back. He thumbed them instead of stamping them. He hmmed.

  He said, “In your picture you lack a mustache, Mr. Villiers.”

  Villiers said, “That is correct. The picture is some six years old. I grew my mustache during a recent vacation.”

  “You should have had your papers emended,” McBe said.

  The alien said, “Is easy enough to change.”

  He had eyes of bulgy blue and a fuzzy white belly, and McBe could not recall having seen his like before. He loomed over Villiers’ shoulder, seized pen from McBe’s pocket and book from hand, made a peculiar throbbing noise that McBe found unsettling, and drew a careful mustache of proper dimension on the picture.