New Celebrations

by Alexei Panshin

  “I must confess you don’t,” she said.

  “Oh.”

  “However, when you entered you did disconcert me for a brief moment,” she said, allowing her face to break.

  “I’m sorry,” he said automatically, and moved to comfort her as she cried briefly. He comforted her with a clumsiness that clearly showed his need for further practice in the costume.

  Lady Oliphaunt said, “Henry, will you take the suit off now?”

  “Not yet, my dear. I’m still getting used to it.”

  She sat up abruptly, glancing off his muzzle with some force. She rose. She said, “I’ll be going into town later to see if I can find an appropriate costume for this masquerade.”

  “Oh,” he said. “I’m disappointed. I was rather hoping I could persuade you to make a set with me.”

  You see now, perhaps. You couldn’t tell a man like that about a melon on the staircase.

  * * *

  There was something that seemed familiar in the serving table’s manner and Villiers wondered about it. “Excuse me,” he said. “Did you bring the message for Mr. Firnhaber earlier in the evening?”

  The table closed all its covers. “I was hoping you wouldn’t recognize me, milord. Those are my least attractive attachments.”

  “I wouldn’t say that at all,” said Villiers. “But I must congratulate you. I think you make a most attractive serving table.”

  When Villiers entered, Lord Semichastny dismissed the table and offered him a choice of hard or soft chair. Villiers waited until Lord Semichastny had drawn out his own seat behind the desk, and then he took the soft chair and settled into it comfortably. He accepted a smoke with the confidence of a man who has no fear of befuddling his mind, and doesn’t mind greatly if he fouls his lungs. That’s nonchalance. Lord Semichastny lit up, too, so as not to be overtopped.

  Lord Semichastny had a stack of letters on the desk before him. He squared the pile.

  He said, “I’m curious to know what possessed your father to send you my way?”

  Villiers said, “I’m afraid I can’t answer that. I’m on no better terms with him than you are. He has a peculiar sense of humor. He may have just been curious to see what we would make of each other. For myself, I haven’t so many relatives not to enjoy the chance of meeting one.” He blew out smoke.

  Lord Semichastny thumbed the letters, flipping them over one by one. He said, “I’ve seen mention of you from time to time in the Garlinghouse Alumni Notes.”

  “I remember seeing mentions of you, sir. Class of ’09, I believe. My address has been unstable of late, and I seem to have missed the Notes, though I must admit not greatly.”

  “You, too?” asked Lord Semichastny. “When I left the place I promised that I would never go back, and I never have. Well, I think we understand each other well enough. I like you, Nephew. I had expected you younger and without that mustache.”

  “More like my picture in the Alumni Notes?”

  “Well, perhaps so. But you’ll do. How would you like to stay here over the winter? You might want to take a shot at serving as my overseer. How does that sound? I have the feeling that these aren’t altogether prosperous times for you.” Lord Semichastny pulled a letter out from the stack and placed it on top, and then began flipping through the stack, top to bottom, again.

  Villiers said, “I think not, sir. I have my own affairs to pursue. Besides, I understood the Winter-Summer Laws to be a tax on you. Will you still be here at the end of the winter?”

  “That particular game is as yet unsettled,” said Lord Semichastny. “I have more resources than the anonymous mob gives me credit for. Will you give me a good hand and stay through the masquerade?”

  “I regret to have to say it, Uncle, but affairs do press me. I have need of the money I believe you to hold for me.”

  “Money? Did you expect to come by money here?”

  “My father directed me here for it.”

  “We did agree that your father has a notorious sense of humor.”

  “Have you mail for me?”

  “Mail? I don’t recall any.”

  Villiers said, “You expected my coming.”

  “Oh, yes. There must have been something.” Lord Semichastny began the most earnest of hunts through the pile of letters in his hands, examining each letter with scrupulous care lest anyone accuse him of making less than the best of searches. At last he stopped, some halfway through the pile, and produced a particular letter. “Why, here we are!” he exclaimed in surprise. “It’s well you reminded me. It’s for you.”

  He handed the missive across the desk to Villiers. It was addressed to him in care of Lord Geoffrey Semichastny and it had been opened. It was not a letter in any proper sense. It was an itinerary. The itinerary was a list of places that Villiers’ father and brother intended to be, so that Villiers could better avoid them. That was what the money was for. But there was no money.

  “And there was no money with this?” Villiers asked.

  “I’m sorry,” said Lord Semichastny. “If you expect it, I’m sure it will turn up shortly. Probably after the masquerade. To while the time, you might pick out a costume when you wake.”

  * * *

  When Villiers left Lord Semichastny’s presence, he went immediately downstairs to the library and stole a book. He walked deliberately into the library and took a book, not intending to return it, and hopelessly marring the symmetry of the shelves for any close observer. He only took one book because there was only one book he wanted.

  On his way upstairs, he encountered Sir Henry on the first landing. Sir Henry was still in his Trog suit.

  Sir Henry said, “I find stairs difficult. They take practice.”

  “You are doing excellently,” said Villiers.

  “By the way,” said Sir Henry. “Am I right in remembering that the color of my coat is meaningful?”

  “I believe you are. If I am right, you are an agrarian gentleman.”

  “A squire, so to speak?”

  “So to speak,” said Villiers.

  On the second landing, Villiers encountered Harbourne Firnhaber.

  “Good evening, Cousin. About to do some bedtime reading?”

  “I believe I will,” said Villiers.

  Harbourne fixed him with a firm eye. “Is it true that you made your bow on Nashua under your family name instead of your title?”

  Villiers regarded him for a moment. At last he said, “I’ll tell you what, Cousin: I’ll trade you question for question. Fair enough?”

  “I suppose. What is your question?”

  “What is your mother’s address?”

  Harbourne blushed. Under his soft cone of light it was a very pretty effect. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said, and plunged away.

  On the third landing, Villiers met Lady Oliphaunt.

  “Shh, Tony,” she said. “I’m going into town later after a costume. Meet me and we will talk privately.” And she pressed a slip of paper into his hand.

  Before he could fairly respond, something whizzed by their heads down the central stairwell, just missing their balustrade, and smashing rottenly on the next floor below. Villiers was startled.

  “What was that?” he said.

  “That was a melon,” she whispered, and slipped off down the hall.

  Sir Henry, using the full power of his suit’s resources, which were considerable, called up from below, “And what is this, now?”

  Lord Semichastny’s voice yelled angrily from the floor above: “Damned prank-playing robot!” There was an appropriate clanking and scurrying. “Charles! Where are you, Charles?”

  Villiers yawned, for it had been an extremely long day for him. He wandered off down the hall toward his room, examining the book he had taken. It was Companions of Vinland by Ottilie A. Liljencrantz.

  Before he went to bed, he prepared the book for mailing. When he was done, he crawled under the covers. The cone of light was still shining over his head, carefully adjusting itself
not to shine in his eyes.

  “Turn off, please,” Villiers said. The light turned off.

  5

  Monism promises only one thing: to make you very very happy. There is a catch, of course. To be happy as a Monist, you must accept Monist definitions of happiness. If you can—and many do—you have a blissful life before you. Congratulations.

  The Monists—in the single person of a Meditation Leader named Coppersmith—came to Delbalso in 1430. He rented a small building, began to talk to people, and let the general observe his sunny personality. If anyone asked, he credited Monism. After a year, he had converted his landlord, Stanley Joralemon, to the Monist Way, the landlord had turned all his considerable worldly possessions over to the commonality, and Joralemon House was a-building.

  When Gideon Coppersmith left Delbalso five years later to carry the blessings of Monism to yet another world—his fourth—there were two active, thriving Houses in the Delbalso Monist Association. Less than thirty years later, there were four: Joralemon, Schermerhorn, Montague, and Pierrepont. Joralemon and Pierrepont were talking of sponsoring another House—Joralemon’s third daughter, Pierrepont’s first. It would be located somewhere outside the town. Sentiment favored the name “Coppersmith House.”

  You may ask those who live in Joralemon, Schermerhorn, Montague and Pierrepont, and they will all tell you that they are very happy. And they are, of course, because they believe they have every reason to be. It’s built into the system.

  Still, for an illusion . . .

  It is indisputable that Monist children are bigger, stronger, and healthier than the Delbalso average. And they smile more. There is a study from the Petenji Institute that says they do.

  Monist business enterprises prosper. Monist art is counted an ornament. A Monist is I-go champion of Delbalso.

  Perhaps the Monists aren’t really happy. Still, it is a fact that in less than thirty-five years, “happy as a Monist” has replaced “merry as a grig” in Delbalso popular idiom, so someone thinks Monists are happy.

  * * *

  Slyne prowled. Through his mind curled fancies of himself as Nemesis, a dark and midnight destroyer. His body bent low. His amplifiers were open to the full. Since he lacked formal introduction to the Trog, he had to follow intuitive patterns, gross assumptions, and problematic possibilities through the night streets. It was all very uncertain. McBe trailed behind on faith alone.

  In time, Slyne’s amplified possibilities and McBe’s faith brought them both to a great enclosing wall. There were gates in the wall, but Slyne passed them by. Then the wall connected to a building, and there were doors. Slyne stopped in front of one of the doors. A banner with a blue motif hung above it.

  “What is this building?” McBe asked. “Is it a university?” By making a special effort, he had retained the information that the Trog they sought was a scholar and hence might be found in company with knowledge.

  “No,” said Slyne. “It’s a House of the Delbalso Monist Association.”

  McBe blanched and gasped. “A Monist House?” He rolled his eyes.

  “Come, come,” said Slyne. “No fits and starts, McBe.”

  “We’re not going to go in there, are we?”

  Slyne said, “Brace yourself, McBe.”

  Reluctantly, McBe went into a brace. “Sir.”

  “What is your primary sense?”

  “Sir?”

  “Which of your senses do you customarily rely on?”

  “Eyesight, I suppose, sir, in the light.”

  “By all means, then, McBe, look about you. Very slowly.”

  McBe slowly looked about him. The street was a gentle curve, faintly lit. There were lights at various places in the great building, and lights above the doors. There was a dark sway of foliage in the breeze.

  “Do you see anything that can harm you?”

  “No, sir. But it’s dark.”

  “What’s your next best sense?”

  “Smell, I suppose.”

  He spoke doubtfully, and well he might. As a self-protective device, all his senses were filtered so that he shouldn’t be swamped by more data than he could safely handle. His hearing was miserable. Almost anything could be said in his presence, short of his name, and pass unheard. For him to hear music, it had to be loud enough to annoy. He would turn it on for a time, let it irritate him and his neighbors, and then turn it off again, convinced that it must have purgative value, since he could detect none other. He had a regular time marked on his schedule.

  Most people, asked their second sense, would say hearing. McBe’s hearing was impugned every day. His sense of smell was no better, but no one had had occasion to challenge it.

  No matter—he pleased Slyne. Slyne wanted to come close and whuffle, but he restrained himself.

  He said, “Take a good deep breath. Taste the air. Sample it carefully.” He took his own advice and caught the faintest intoxicating whiff of McBe.

  McBe took a shocking lungful of air. He held it in and then he let it dribble out. Anxious to justify his own estimate, he sampled the Night.

  “Well,” said Slyne, “anything harmful?”

  “No,” said McBe. “But it tastes wild.” He suppressed a shudder.

  “What sense next?”

  “Hearing?” asked McBe.

  “All right. Listen. What do you hear?”

  McBe listened. He not only listened, he continued to see and smell. He heard only the sound of the wind. He saw nothing. He smelled vague wild promise. It gave him the sense that there were things lurking just beyond the limit of his ability to detect them.

  “I don’t hear anything, sir.”

  “Of course not. Now expand yourself. There’s nothing out here you can’t dominate. Feel your size. Feel your strength. Take power from your uniform.”

  But McBe took no sense of power from his uniform. He hadn’t gotten past expanding his senses, and the accumulation of strange dark impressions was too much for him.

  Between tightly clenched teeth, he said, “I believe you may be right, sir. I think we could go inside now, if you like.”

  “Very good,” said Slyne, inhaling. “I thought all you needed was a little encouragement. Very soon you’ll be out here planetside all the time, eh, McBe?”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” McBe said, watching him sound the door of the Monist Association. Imagine—to be feeling relief to be allowed within a Monist Association. But then those big walls can fence out the wild world as well as guard secrets.

  As they waited for the door to open, McBe said, “Do you think they’ll let me use their sanitary facilities?” He was delicate about the things he said.

  “Is it that time again?” Slyne asked.

  McBe nodded. That was easier than an explanation. This foray into the darkness had thrown him completely off schedule and he had the feeling that almost anything was possible. Anyway, he knew he had to use a toilet, schedule or no.

  A Warder answered the door. He little more than blinked at the Empire uniforms or at Slyne, who was not usual. “Yes?” he said.

  McBe said, “May I use your bathroom?” And he looked over his shoulder at the Night.

  “Well, I suppose you may,” the Warder said. “Come on inside. Around there to the right, second door.”

  He pointed McBe on his way. The floor was parquetry. The walls were paneled in wood.

  Slyne said, “We have reason to believe that a Trog came to this House tonight. To this very door.” His nose twitched as he sought to know the Warder better.

  “Not as far as I know,” the Warder said.

  “We wish to examine its papers.”

  “Is that your job, examining papers?”

  “For the most part.”

  “Then I can understand your wanting to examine the papers of a Trog. I’m sure they must be special and exciting. Fully as gaudy as your own.”

  “Less.”

  “Is that so? But why do you search here, in a Monist Association, and, in particular,
why, when your authority does not stretch beyond the door to the Rock?”

  “You are right, of course, Reverend Sir. I have no . . . particular authority. Particular authority . . .” He mulled the phrase and found it good. “But this is not an official investigation.”

  “You’re wearing your uniform,” the Warder pointed out quite reasonably.

  “An accident,” said the Orthodoxou. “I forgot to change before venturing out.”

  “And your friend?”

  ”He neglected to change as well. But it is of no moment. We simply wish to know whether a Trog has been here tonight.”

  The Warder considered. “All right. I’ll check, though I don’t know why I should.” He rang the House Plexus. “Walt, has a Trog been in the House tonight?” He nodded. “Oh. Yes. No, two I.S.ers from the Rock. That’s what I said. Oh—Badrian.”

  McBe entered, looking over his shoulder with an air of puzzlement, as the Warder turned back. McBe looked up just in time to avoid a collision. McBe bobbed politely.

  “Thank you,” he said, and rubbed his fingers publicly to show that they were clean and dry.

  The Warder nodded. To Slyne, he said, “Your Trog was here but he left some time ago.”

  “Why was he here?” Slyne asked sharply.

  The Warder looked reproachful. “But, Sir, this isn’t an investigation. Do you fail to recall?”

  Slyne nodded reluctantly. “I do recall.” he said.

  “I may tell you that he left by Gate Three.”

  “Will you show us the way?” Slyne asked.

  “Oh, I’m afraid I can’t,” said the Warder. “I can’t leave my post and there is no one else to show you. You’ll have to find your own way around the outside. It’s about the same distance either way.”

  “Very well,” said Slyne. “Come along, McBe.”

  “Already?” said McBe.

  “Pull yourself together, McBe. Good night, Sir.”

  “Good night,” said McBe.

  “Good night,” said the Warder. “Oh, one thing. The Xochitl Sodality is playing Wonders and Marvels tonight. You had better be careful. They may take you for a Marvel.” And he closed the door.

  McBe didn’t hear, of course. Slyne heard, but didn’t know what the Warder meant. He didn’t ask McBe.