New Celebrations

by Alexei Panshin

  “May I ask what was causing you distress when you entered?” Villiers asked.

  “Was it that obvious?”

  “I would say that it was.”

  “Lord Semichastny—your uncle, Tony?—dropped an overripe melon at me on the stair. He blamed it on a careless mechanical and made it beg my pardon, but I’m sure it was he. We were acquainted once on Livermore, and he still presumes.”

  “A melon?”

  “Yes. He always took delight in thinking of things to do with melons, and I believe he was attempting to remind me in indirect fashion.”

  Villiers said, “Yes, I do remember your acquaintances. I believe that you introduced me to several.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. She had the grace to blush, but her complexion was dark, her hand with cosmetics was heavy, and the lights were dim, and the gesture passed unnoticed. If we want to be aware of what people do for us, we must be alert. “I did. But Tony, it was Livermore, after all, and things just are not the same there. Sir Henry and I were married on Livermore, and that’s a proper measure.”

  “Will you tell Sir Henry of my uncle’s attempts to renew acquaintance?”

  “Renew?”

  “No? No.”

  “Tell Sir Henry?”

  “No? No.”

  She sighed. “And to what end?”

  “Is it like that?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Oh,” he said. “Well, I, too, have long felt that Livermore was an unusual place. I need to recover from my second visit before I attempt a third. I don’t know if I owe you thanks for taking me there in the first place. I probably do. If so, you have them, Amita.”

  She said, “I thought you needed cheering. It was so romantic. You had just eloped with your wife to be divorced and you were such a sweet boy.”

  “Is that how you remember it? I hardly recognize myself.”

  “Oh, but you’ve changed, Tony—didn’t we agree? And I hope you’ll shave that mustache, for it doesn’t suit you.”

  Villiers touched the mustache again. “It is possible that you may be right. Perhaps I should end the experiment.”

  “Oh, where is my husband?” she asked with some impatience. Whatever reservations a wife may have with the married state, a husband is still a husband.

  * * *

  The fac machine was located with convenient proximity to Lord Semichastny’s game room. Its principal use was not to supply costumes for the yearly masquerade, but rather to add an extra dimension to Lord Semichastny’s occasional private parties. Where his personal pleasures were concerned, he did not skimp or scrimp. The costumes his machine produced were a redolent lot positively guaranteed to put you firmly in character. He, his guests, and relations had had many a gay romp as heroes and monsters and creatures of wonder.

  Charles rolled over to Sir Henry and said, “If you will, sir, that’s a uniform, not a costume.”

  “It looks like a costume,” said Sir Henry.

  The set was a green polka-dotted silk sarong, a diaphanous blouse and an orange tarboosh.

  “It’s a uniform, and no doubt I shall be wearing it at the masquerade, sir,” said Charles. He took it from Sir Henry and replaced it on its rack. “But I shan’t enjoy wearing it. Now, if you’ll permit me, sir, I’ll take your measurements while the fac machine is cycling.”

  Sir Henry temporarily balanced on one foot while a measurement was taken. “What is it that you object to in your uniform?”

  “Orange? Me in orange? Milord Semichastny chose orange deliberately because he knew I shouldn’t like it.” This seemed loose talk to Sir Henry, extremely loose. It is all very well to give robots Limited Volition, but not if it is going to be abused.

  “Pardon me, sir,” said Charles, and dialed for the Trog suit. “I think you made an excellent choice, sir. This costume—Lord Semichastny himself wore it at a party last year. Mrs. Armbruster was Semiramis Among the Doves.”

  Sir Henry said, “See here! There is a natural order in things. If Lord Semichastny picked your uniform, I’m sure that he had a very good reason in mind, and it isn’t your place to question his judgment. I find my Presentation Uniform unsightly, but if they ordered me to wear it, I would. You should do the same. Smile through.” That is, this is what he intended to say. In actual fact, before he was much past “natural order,” the machine began to produce the Trog costume and distracted his attention, and consequently a certain amount of conviction and force was lost. The suit was of gray shading to olive. And to Sir Henry’s eye, the great lolling empty head spoke of all the friendliness and good intentions one could ask for. “Smile through” was no better than a mumble.

  “My word,” he said. “That is fine.”

  ”So Mrs. Armbruster thought,” said Charles. “She gave me a dove to keep. May I help you into the costume, sir?”

  The costume swallowed Sir Henry exactly, so fine were Charles’s measurements and the machine’s ability to suit. Anyone who did not know a Trog at first hand—which is to say, nearly everyone—might easily think him one. A telltale sign were his eyes. The eyes of a genuine Trog are a divine and lumined blue. Sir Henry’s eyes were lumined and blue, but lacked the true sparkle of divinity. But not everyone would be able to catch him on that, lacking first-hand experience of Trogs.

  “This is marvelous,” Sir Henry said. “I shall have to show Lady Oliphaunt.”

  His voice was somewhat muffled because he hadn’t yet mastered the controls of the suit. It was quite an engineering marvel. With practice, one could work the controls and walk and talk and pass for a genuine Trog. The suit had sanitary features and a snack shelf and reservoirs for as many as five drinks. A cheaper version of the suit only had one reservoir, but Lord Semichastny and personal pleasures . . . Sir Henry said, “Show Lady Oliphaunt,” over and over until his voice came clear.

  He waltzed a little circle to see if he could, quite forgetting himself and his proper dignity as the hand of the Emperor in this sad corner. Or it may have been the final carefree moment before the assumption of his responsibilities. In any case, it was a mistake. Creatures with Limited Volition should be treated with consistent reserved distance lest they be confused and misled into overstepping themselves.

  Perhaps it was the influence of the suit. It may be that the well-known weirdness of Trogs, sufficient in prime to make their restriction reasonable, is a direct result of their form. At least pause to consider that if you looked like that, it would probably affect your mind. And to wear a Trog suit may be to open the susceptible mind to a metapsychotic transference. In any case, Trog suits are illegal on thirteen worlds on general principles.

  Charles, presented with the waltzing Trog, misguidedly said, “I find it impossible to smile through, sir. I truly hate to grovel and wear orange.”

  “What?”

  “Grovel—as before dinner.”

  “Oh, yes, that.” Sir Henry thought. “But then we don’t always like what is good for us, do we? I think you should accept Lord Semichastny’s judgment, even if you don’t understand it. If you will only accept the principle of natural order, you will find that life becomes much easier to deal with. Smiling is the major part.”

  Charles said, “Were positions reversed, would you smile?”

  “I think I would. I’m sure I would.”

  “In that case, sir, grovel. And enjoy it.” Limited Volition can be a dangerous thing. An audacious challenge.

  But Sir Henry the Trog fell to consideration of the suggestion. And since he did accept the principle of natural order, he thought he could. Or ought to be able to. “All right,” he said.

  Sir Henry levered himself to the floor, paused on his knees for a breath, and then he began to kick and whimper.

  “Louder,” said Charles inexorably. “And you’re supposed to yell your fault.”

  “My fault! Oh, my fault! I am sorry. I repent. Forgive me. (What is it I did?) Whatever I did, I’m sorry for it and if you’ll only forgive me I’ll never do it again.�
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  Finally Charles said, “All right. That’s enough.”

  Sir Henry came back to his knees.

  “Did you enjoy it?” asked Charles.

  “I’m smiling,” said Sir Henry, who was a bit winded. It was impossible to say whether or not he actually was smiling because of the costume. But if he did smile, perhaps he did smile. It wasn’t impossible that he should. After all, in spite of all Charles said, deep within him, deep deep within him, he did enjoy groveling just the least little bit.

  “Yes, sir,” said Charles.

  Sir Henry said. “I’ll have to speak to Lord Semichastny. At close range your carpets are quite lovely.” The heavy Trog head nodded. “But that can wait. I must have my word with Lady Oliphaunt.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Charles.

  “I trust that was satisfactory?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Charles.

  “Very good, then. Keep smiling.”

  Sir Henry clumped out and down the corridor. He may have been smiling. At the least, he did offer every appearance of friendliness and good intention. Assume he was smiling—as a man who has taken the dangerous step of testing his premises, and has found them true, he had reason. Be heartened.

  * * *

  Harbourne skirted a mess on the stairs. The mechanical who had carried the message was cleaning it up.

  “What happened here?” Harbourne asked.

  “An accident,” the mechanical said. And then, “It was a melon. It was my fault.”

  “I’m sure it was,” said Harbourne.

  Harbourne was ambitious and able. He had thought about what he wanted in life, and through self-discipline and sacrifice he was slowly achieving what he coveted, slowly molding himself into what he wanted to be. He was cool and played his hand warily.

  Lord Semichastny, on the other hand, was less concerned with what he might be. He knew himself for what he was and didn’t care if he pleased anyone. He did as he pleased and spoke as he pleased. He even dressed more extravagantly than Harbourne.

  The room was all hung about with ornamental rugs. Long-pile, short-pile, fringed. They made the walls close and the room dark and warm.

  Lord Semichastny invited Harbourne to take a seat and Harbourne sat down in a hard straight chair. Lord Semichastny remained standing, free to prowl as he pleased, the room his run.

  “Aren’t you taking a chance in leaving Villiers alone with Lady Oliphaunt?” Harbourne asked. “She’s restless. He’s attractive, isn’t he? It appeared to me that you were trying to fix your interest.”

  “Why thank you,” said Lord Semichastny dangerously. “But you underestimate me, Harbourne. Lady Oliphaunt and I are friends of long standing, and my interests are already fixed. Young Charteris will not be here for long, whatever his attractions.”

  “Is the title genuine?” Harbourne asked.

  “Yes,” said Lord Semichastny. “Are you jealous? Some nephews have better endowments than others, but this one is my sister’s son and comes by his title honestly.”

  Harbourne was jealous. But he said, “Sister’s son?”

  “To be sure. Did you think him in common trade?”

  Harbourne said, “If I had a title, I would go to Nashua now. I wouldn’t wait any longer.”

  There are many aspirant gentlemen on shelves around the Empire, ripening themselves for Nashua like so many cheeses. Harbourne felt himself almost ready, but still lacked the resolve to go. The thought of Nashua awed him.

  “Enter a game. Fight for a title.”

  “I don’t fight that well.”

  “You might buy one. I myself have several minor titles that I could part with. How would you like to style yourself Thegn of Vrane?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Harbourne. “I fear your prices, milord.”

  “If my sources of information are correct, you have already booked passage from Delbalso.”

  “After your party, milord. I had meant to tell you. With winter approaching, I thought it might be appropriate to visit another of my widespread family.”

  Lord Semichastny circled the room. He lurked as he talked. From behind Harbourne, he said, “It’s a pity you have no taste for winter sports. How would you like to be Thegn of Vrane? Would you stay the winter for it?”

  Harbourne considered. “I think I might.”

  “Well, it’s unfortunate that I no longer hold the title. If I did, I’m more than certain that I would test your resolve. On the other hand, you are planning to leave.”

  “Yes,” said Harbourne, trying to suppress his frustration. Turning on a hard wooden chair to speak over your shoulder can remind you where you are and who you are.

  “Would you like a good recommendation to carry away with you, one speaking highly of your ability and initiative? Full credit for a splendid job as overseer of my Delbalso estates.”

  “Is this another hypothetical bargain, or do you mean it?”

  “Oh, I do mean it. Of course I mean it. I’m surprised to hear that you have doubt of me.” Lord Semichastny paused behind his desk and put his hands behind his back and looked directly at Harbourne. “I merely want you to go into town and find typical Delbalso natives, a good representative sample, and invite them out here to the masquerade. If it can’t be done any other way, let us show Sir Henry the company he can expect.”

  “The Monist Association, too?”

  “Oh, yes. Them in particular. Dig them out, bring them to the light, and let us give Sir Henry the chance to see them, whatever they are.”

  Harbourne took a heavy breath and nipped at an irritation on his lip, and then he said, “But I know no one.”

  “What?” said Lord Semichastny. “Here this long and still a stranger? In any case, Nephew, I have no interest in inviting your acquaintances to the masquerade. I want people you don’t know and would no longer care to. The reference, after all, speaks of—what did I say?—initiative and ability.”

  “Yes,” said Harbourne. “That’s what you said. All right. I’ll do it, but under the condition that I have a hand drafting the recommendation.”

  “Of course,” said Lord Semichastny. “Who other than you knows your unique and particular talents so well?”

  And so they came to terms. But Lord Semichastny could not resist saying, “You might be interested to know that my nephew—my other nephew—passed himself by his family name when he made his bow on Nashua.”

  “ ‘Villiers’?”

  “Yes. And he managed, or so I’m given to understand.”

  * * *

  “I believe this may be your husband now, milady,” said Villiers.

  Sir Henry the Trog pranced into the room, humming, casting fantastic shadows on the wall. This was not the terror-arousing disintegration of character that it might appear. It was, in fact, another risk-taking exploration of the possibilities of Sir Henry’s new body. He was one with Icarus. But he frightened his wife. Daedalus got scared, too.

  “Is that you, Henry?” she asked.

  “Indeed it is,” he said. “And a very good evening to you. Tell me, Lord Charteris, what think you of my choice of costume?”

  “It fits you admirably,” said Villiers.

  “That was Charles’s doing. And between us, he has some very loose ideas for a robot. I demonstrated natural order to him, however, and he may be the better for it. What’s the matter, my dear?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “You disconcerted me for a moment.”

  “Oh,” he said, and the almost blue-enough eyes bulged pensively.

  “As it happens,” said Villiers, “I’ve had occasion to observe a Trog in nature, and your representation is largely excellent, Sir Henry.”

  “Really?” asked Sir Henry. “They’re—I mean, we’re—restricted, aren’t we?”

  “You are,” said Villiers. “But then I travel widely.”

  “Do you think you could show me what I’m doing wrong?” asked Sir Henry.

  “To be sure,” said Villiers, and his light cone shone a littl
e brighter.

  Lady Oliphaunt gave an exasperated sign and sat down with her back to them. If there was a flaw in her character—an unfortunate thing to suggest even tentatively of such a pretty lady—it was that she lacked patience. A failure to appreciate Trogs cannot be called a character flaw. It has to be called a lapse in taste. Oh, well, she was still an attractive woman, if not as attractive as she had been, say, five years before. Five years before, Villiers might have been a shade less interested in demonstrating how a Trog walks. But then people change.

  A mechanical serving table wheeled in while Villiers had Sir Henry doing hunkers and squats.

  “My word, this is difficult.”

  “But I assure you that it’s typical behavior. It’s easier to do for a natural Trog.”

  The serving table made a slow graceful curve across the room, pirouetting as it came, raising and lowering its serving covers with the rhythm of an elegant bird. Having demonstrated itself to best advantage, it came to a halt before Villiers.

  “Milord,” it said, “Lord Semichastny awaits your attendance.”

  Villiers said, “Your pardon, Sir Henry. I’m stayed for.”

  “Go, by all means,” said Sir Henry the Trog. “I shall practice what you have shown me until I see you again.”

  When Villiers and the serving table, still fluttering its serving covers, had left the library, Sir Henry did a final practice hunker.

  Then he said, “Well, my dear, isn’t this a fine costume? I’m liking it more by the minute. Don’t you think it radiates friendliness and good intentions?”

  “To be frank, Henry,” she said, “I don’t. Trogs are such uncertain creatures.”

  “Are they?” he asked. “Uncertain.” It gave him something to think about, since as it happened he was feeling rakishly uncertain at that particular moment, and it made him aware and gave him pause for enjoyment.

  But then he said, “And . . . but . . . what do you know of Trogs, my dear?”

  “When I was presented on Nashua, I met the Trog Chief Hostage. He was a soldier, black and white, and very fierce. He gave me a considerable fright.”

  “Do I frighten you?” Sir Henry asked.