“I believe you’re right,” said Lord Semichastny. “Well, we’ll take it up after dinner. Come along now, Sir Henry. The first course is a Bulbenko melon, and I guarantee it is better than anything you have ever eaten in your life. I selected it myself. Pulpy mellow perfection, if I do say so.”
And he led Sir Henry out of the room. Lady Oliphaunt and Harbourne Firnhaber followed. Both shot looks at the stairs where Villiers had gone, both thinking their own thoughts. Lady Oliphaunt’s thoughts were bright with possibility. Harbourne Firnhaber’s thoughts were dark and suspicious.
Lady Oliphaunt asked, “But is there really going to be a party?”
Said Harbourne, “I believe Lord Semichastny—my uncle—is determined that there shall be. Whether there will be anybody left to come, I have no idea. I’m sure it will be more pleasant here if someone does, but perhaps more interesting if not.”
* * *
Villiers walked upstairs and Charles rode a lift beside him. Both Villiers and Charles moved in the center of yellow light cones, but Villiers’ light was stronger. Charles’s was only a courtesy light.
The butler recognized Villiers—and not in his role of Lord Semichastny’s nephew. Charles was not privy to the details of Lord Semichastny’s family affairs, and curiosity in the matter was beyond him. But Charles recognized Villiers.
“Your pardon, sir,” he said, “but I know you.”
“Do you?” said Villiers.
“Yes, sir, I do,” said Charles. “Morris, Lord Broccoli’s steward, and I belong to the same club.” The club was for majordomos, nominally for the exchange of household hints, but in actuality a social organization. Not everyone could join. Qualifications were required. The membership was twelve mechanicals, four humans, and a Csencsits who managed the household of a Monoprop newly rich and full of ideas. Charles was the only member on Delbalso, and that meant a good deal to him.
“I remember Morris quite well,” said Villiers. He had an excellent memory. He remembered every alien he had ever met, a large percentage of the mechanicals, and even many humans.
“And he remembers you, too, sir. He has spoken warmly of you.”
“Most generous under the circumstances,” said Villiers. And, in fact, it was. Some months previous, an assassin searching for Villiers had dismantled Lord Broccoli’s Morris in the mistaken belief that he knew Villiers’ true whereabouts. An unfortunate accident.
“Between us, sir, it was the most exciting thing that ever happened to him,” Charles said. “He hasn’t yet stopped talking of it. I’ll note your visit in the ‘News and Notes’ in the next issue of Our Little Worlds. That’s our club magazine. I’m the editor. Morris will be pleased to hear of you, I’m sure.”
The light chatter was a brave attempt to carry on, but at the top of the stairs, Charles stopped. His previously unspoken distress overwhelmed him. Don’t think a robot can’t have feelings.
He said, “I don’t really enjoy that—the rolling about on the floor and declaring my fault. I was doing my job the best way I knew. It isn’t fair to make me grovel.”
“It did seem somewhat undignified.”
“Exactly, sir. It is undignified. But I couldn’t help myself, you know. He dominates me. And he’ll make me wear that uniform.”
That is the traditional way of masters, owners, overseers and gods. They set things for people to do, like it or not, because they have a superior grasp of how the world ought to be. They really do know best and will tell you so.
Villiers sympathized, adequately to his mind, inadequately to Charles’s, but Charles forgave him.
* * *
Villiers did not hurry himself, but only missed the melon. That was all right, because he had no particular partiality to melon—which shows that a taste for such things does not necessarily run in families. Villiers found melon too sweet for his liking, though I’m sure he wasn’t so inflexible that he wouldn’t have eaten melon if he had been in time for it. If he thought it was unusual that dinner had started without him, he said nothing.
The second course was soup—Delbalso borsch, made of instead-ofs, but good enough to be enjoyed for its own character. Lord Semichastny was served separately: melon soup. He was not so very erratic that he would intrude his tastes on his guests—and later in the meal he had melon relish from his own receipt—but erratic enough to serve himself what he wanted to eat. And erratic enough to press his knee against that of Lady Oliphaunt until she shifted away.
There were cones of light over every head, illuminating the company. And, again, of all the lights, that over Villiers’ head was brighter than the others. That is the way the cones work.
When Villiers came in, Lord Semichastny was advising Sir Henry to have a look at the Delbalso Monist Association as a likely center of forbiddable activity. He blamed the Monist Association for the Winter-Summer Laws. Lord Semichastny broke off and advised Villiers as to his seat. Lord Semichastny was sitting at the head of the table with Sir Henry and Lady Oliphaunt on his right and left. Harbourne was seated below Sir Henry; Villiers, the other nephew, across the table, next to Lady Oliphaunt, whose chair was rather closer to him than to his uncle.
As Villiers seated himself, Lady Oliphaunt said, “Have you recent news of Nashua, Lord Charteris?” Some years before her marriage, she had had her moment on Nashua and still held news of Nashua of first importance.
Villiers said, “My agents do strive to keep my wardrobe current, but in point of fact I have not been on Nashua for three years. I’m afraid I’m sadly behind. I did hear that Prince Frederick is to be married.”
“Oh, that’s been dished too many times,” said Semichastny. “Can’t we have a change of subject?”
“I take it that I’m late with the news?”
Lady Oliphaunt said, “I’m sure he could have done much better. Her family is well enough, but you would hardly call her feminine.”
“To my eye,” said Sir Henry, “she appears interesting.”
“You’ve said that before,” said Lady Oliphaunt. “It does seem futile to take care of one’s appearance if men save their appreciation for inglorious accidents.”
“Perhaps it is a sign that men’s minds are as much of a puzzle to women as your minds are to us,” said Villiers.
“Do you find her attractive, then, milord?”
“Interesting.”
She turned to Lord Semichastny. “Do you find her attractive? I must have some support in this.”
“You have my support,” he said. “Of course.”
Villiers said, “And you, Cousin?”
Harbourne said, “Well, Cousin, I’ve never met the lady but her pictures are doubtful.” He nodded to Lady Oliphaunt. “However, I am interested.”
“Why?” asked Lady Oliphaunt.
“My curiosity is aroused. The lady hardly seems attractive enough to win a prince. And yet she did. I don’t understand, and so I am interested. You find her attractive, Cousin, and I don’t understand that. And so I am interested.” He looked directly at Villiers across the table and waited for an answer.
Villiers’ attention was on his dinner, and it was only after a blank moment that he looked up.
“Me, Cousin? My tastes are erratic and doubtful, and beyond explanation. I’m sure that I should properly apologize to Lady Oliphaunt. Let me assure you, milady, that the care you take with your appearance does not go unappreciated. You are an ornament to the table.”
“Why thank you, milord.”
Sir Henry nodded across the table at his wife. “He’s right. You do very well, my dear. You look well tonight. Meant to say something about it earlier but it slipped my mind.”
“Thank you, Henry,” she said.
When Charles entered with the next course, Lord Semichastny said, “Sir Henry has his costume selected. After dinner you may take charge of fitting him.”
“Yes, milord,” said Charles.
Lord Semichastny said, “Charteris, would you like a look at our catalog of costumes?”
“No, thank you, Uncle,” said Villiers. “I still doubt that I shall be able to attend.”
“Oh, yes,” said Lord Semichastny. “I recall that you said that.”
”Who will attend?” asked Lady Oliphaunt.
”I beg your pardon?” said Lord Semichastny. “I’m not sure I understand you, milady.”
”What do you mean?” asked Sir Henry.
”I mean, sirs, outside of this small company, who will attend the party? These Summer-Winter Laws . . .”
“Winter-Summer.” Lord Semichastny.
“. . . would seem to be shortening your guest list, milord. I’m not sure that I care to make the trip to pick a costume and dress if there are to be no more than we five.”
“Four,” said Villiers.
“Is this true?” Sir Henry demanded, turning to Lord Semichastny in a state of mind that approached alertness.
Lord Semichastny said gently, “I’ve been attempting to explain the Winter-Summer Laws and their effects. It is true that many of the weaker spirits have already left the planet. Some of us, however, will endure.”
“How many?”
“More than four?” asked Lady Oliphaunt.
It may have been possible that Lord Semichastny had intended to dramatize the effect of the Winter-Summer Laws by presenting Sir Henry with an absence of peers. Sir Henry, dressed in costume, waltzing in the glow of a single light cone in the middle of a dark and empty floor. Lady O tucked away and Sir Henry wandering alone in the dark. That would teach him quickly enough.
But Lord Semichastny was always ready to review his premises. “The laws will simply affect the composition of the guest list. Have no fear; I invited you to a masquerade, and there shall be one.”
4
Given the right premises, any desired conclusion can be reached, automatic as addition. This is plain to most of mankind after a few years of experiment. Jumping to conclusions is an easy process, akin to cooking, which in fact it rivals in age. Pick your premises, follow the rules, and apple pie.
Jumping to conclusions is not without value. It is the core of art. But it is a dangerous business. Man entertained himself for years with notions of divinity and superiority—easy conclusions from a hundred sets of premises. The result was greater suffering than life makes necessary.
It didn’t occur at first that there was a problem. Artists of the actual were too busy messing around, experimenting, to realize the results of what they did—much as a careless chef might poison thirty banquet guests through experiment gone awry. Recipes in final form are easy to follow. It is harder to invent them, and it is commonplace for men to be too close to their work for others’ safety.
Once men realized the danger in false conclusions, of course they instantly reformed themselves, and as everyone knows have ever since been far more sparing in the making of them. We should all be congratulated, but the job is not yet done. Far more serious than jumping to conclusions is its antecedent—jumping to premises. The ideal man is not only sparing of conclusions, but careful about the premises to which he commits himself. Few of us are ideal, but many strive. It is another human pastime. Morgus Grimsby strove for the ideal. Even Lord Semichastny, in his own way, was a seeker of the ideal.
Every day it is possible to see the bravest and best among us reviewing their premises. We should be heartened.
* * *
Various people made their temporary excuses immediately after dinner, and Villiers and Harbourne Firnhaber were left in the library. The shelves were an untapped cache of the wisdom of the world. The books were old, of various heights and sizes and colors, filling the shelves around the room in an order carefully designed for maximum decorative effect. They were part of the original decoration of the house. Lord Semichastny had intended to line the shelves with representations, in conventional style, when by happy accident he had been able to buy a private library at a reduced price. The original catalog stood in the corner.
“Well, Cousin,” said Harbourne, “will you tell me what we are in competition for? I like to know where I stand at all times.”
Villiers withdrew a list from his wallet. He looked up. “You are considerably taller than I. On the other hand, I wear a mustache. For what could we possibly stand in competition? By the way, would you care to lend me your services?” He finished his examination of the list and handed it to Harbourne. “Have a look at the shelves while we talk and see if you can spot any of these titles.”
Harbourne handed the list back. “There’s a catalog in the corner.” He pointed.
“How very convenient. Our uncle should be congratulated. I hardly expected his collection to be catalogued.”
“Is your name Villiers or Charteris?” asked Harbourne. “You said Villiers. Uncle said Charteris.”
“It’s both,” said Villiers, beginning to thumb his way through the catalog. “Or either. Villiers most of the time. Uncle did seem insistent on the title, didn’t he? Perhaps to impress Sir Henry and Lady Oliphaunt?” It was non-standard cataloging, and required interpretation.
“Or to impress me,” said Harbourne. “I have no title and I’m not yet ready to assume one.”
“And you take me for a standard of comparison?” asked Villiers.
Before Harbourne could answer, Lady Oliphaunt entered the library. Her composure seemed shaken, but only for the fleetest moment. She set her chin, not only demonstrating spirit, but showing herself to better advantage, since her chin when lowered was not her best feature.
“Where is Sir Henry?” she asked.
“He and Charles left some few minutes ago to grapple with the fitting and production of his costume,” said Harbourne. “Won’t you join our company until his return, milady?”
“Thank you, Mr. Firnhaber,” she said. “I believe I will.” She glanced at the doorway and then crossed and sat gracefully where she could see and talk to both Villiers and Harbourne.
She said, “Have you chosen your costume, Mr. Firnhaber?”
“I have. For a time I considered growing my beard in random tufts and passing as a High-Liver of the 940’s, but in the end I settled on Ian Steele.”
“You shall have to assume a mustache, then,” said Lady Oliphaunt.
“So much less our differences,” said Villiers. “I shall assume Elaborates and match you in height, and then we shall be in competition.”
“You don’t mean to dress as Ian Steele?” It was a matter of importance to Harbourne. Ian Steele was his model, as he was the model for ambitious romantics everywhere, and Harbourne felt that no party should rightly sport more than one copy, and he had dibs on being that copy.
Villiers said, “Oh, no, I do not. I still doubt that I will attend the party. Affairs press. And if I do attend, I promise to forego the Elaborates.”
“What about the mustache?” asked Harbourne.
Villiers smoothed the mustache. “I’m afraid that we may collide on that point, Cousin. But then a proper Ian Steele mustache should be thinner and darker, no more than two definite lines. So perhaps our collision, if it should occur, will not be that violent.”
“It is a shame, Lord Charteris, that your affairs press,” said Lady Oliphaunt. “Your company will be missed.”
“It would seem that company is in short supply,” said Villiers, “but I do thank you, madam.”
“How long will you be staying?”
Villiers closed the catalog and looked up. “Long enough to speak with Lord Semichastny. My uncle and I have some small family affairs to settle.”
Harbourne considered him carefully. “And then you will be leaving?” he asked slowly.
“So I intend,” Villiers said. “Presently.”
There was a discreet bid for attention from the doorway. A mechanical dressed in an ensemble of cleaning and polishing attachments said, “Please excuse my appearance, good gentles. I’m most heartily sorry to show you myself in this state.”
“It’s all right,” said Harbourne. “We shall attemp
t to take no notice.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ve been sent to inform you that Lord Semichastny would like to see you now in private conference.”
“Who was sent for?” asked Villiers.
“Mr. Firnhaber, milord.”
“Well,” said Harbourne, with some satisfaction.
“Ah,” said Villiers. “In that case, Cousin, we shall excuse you.”
Harbourne rose from his straight-backed chair, nodded and said, “Until later.”
The mechanical excused itself, rolled out of his path, and then away into the depths of the house. Harbourne’s departure reduced the illumination in the room, and may well have produced some fleeting illusion of greater intimacy. Otherwise it would be hard to explain why Lady Oliphaunt, a married gentlewoman, should have spoken to Villiers in an unsuitably casual manner.
She said, “Harbourne always sits in straight hard chairs. Why do you suppose he does that?”
“On occasion, I used to do it myself,” said Villiers. “I think it is due to some residual belief in the superstition that there is a relation between hard chairs and keen wits. I’ve ceased to believe in it myself.”
“I can remember when you did,” she said. In her mind, earth shifted and waters mingled. “You mean that’s why you sat on the chair all that night, Tony?”
“I was considerably younger then,” said Villiers. “Things were far more theoretical in those days and theories need testing. I believe that at one time, I had ambitions to be Ian Steele, until I tried it. And there was my vegetarian phase.”
“Truly?”
“No, not truly. I have a friend who is a vegetarian. I’m not sure I care to recall the exact letter of my own particular list.”
“You have changed, Tony.”
“Ah, yes. The mustache. I’m not sure that I’ll retain it for long.”
That was not precisely what she had in mind, but she was apparently able to accept it as an appropriate approximation, for she simply smiled.
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