Montague’s Locutor smiled. Montague doubled the applause that Joralemon had mustered.
The only restraint was from Pierrepont Green. As Sir Henry jogged, shook his trotters, popped his eyes of pseudo-Trog-Blue, hopped and cavorted, they saw their own Trog Marvel—apparently one of a more phlegmatic temperament—fade into a paler copy. Some of them looked at Torve in near-accusation. The only satisfaction for Pierrepont was in foretasting the chagrin of the Reds of Montague. Even a dancing Trog is small change if everyone has one.
And all three judges had reservations. Even if the Sodality members of Pierrepont were unpracticed enough to see a rare, unique, and genuine Trog as a mere copy-Trog, and a copy-Trog as genuine, Villiers was one who knew the difference. Lord Semichastny only knew and believed in copy-Trogs. He had been one himself, so he necessarily held the crowd too easily swayed. Lady Oliphaunt’s reservations have already been presented.
But still—for a copy-Trog, Sir Henry was very persuasive. He had put his hours of night practice to good use in the service of felicity, facility, and fidelity. If he did not move to the platform with the certifiable pad of a true Trog, he did move with confidence and grace and, more important, he believed in himself. As the only Trog he knew, he could be the beau ideal of the Trog, and he fulfilled that beau ideal so well that he was sure he was a Trog.
Shakespeare, lacking a dictionary, was free. Believe it. Sir Henry, lacking any more guide than a few scraps of second-hand information, had been free to mold his characterization as his sense of art directed, and he had created “Sir Henry the Trog” from the well of his secret heart. There had never been an appropriate moment in Sir Henry’s life for him to express charm and sweetness and lose himself in dance. It would have been inconsistent with the Sir Henry that had always been.
But he took charm and sweetness and the pounding freedom of dance and poured them into his Troggish creation. He could not have said why, except that it did seem appropriate.
He had only hoped in wearing this Trog costume that his friendliness and good intentions might be apparent to the world, and to his intoxication they were—except to those very few with cherished and deep-seated prejudice against Trogs. A number which must be a small minority.
To a purist, he was not a Trog. But be not overly taken with exact categorizations. He deserved his applause: his style of Trog was quite Wonderful.
Feeling the full swell of his agrarian soul, this gentleman farmer did a Paddy Dance of his own spontaneous creation. Lord Semichastny had once had some notion of Sir Henry Oliphaunt in costume all alone waltzing. Now to Sir Henry the Trog, the platform, the judges, his wife, and the Sodality in their colors making a flower around them all paled. In his mind he was standing up to his knees in a paddy, surrounded by others of his kind splashing and stomping out their joy of life.
Oh, the wildness! His eyes were closed. He was oblivious to the whistles and cheers, the fascinated faces. He stomped and squelched in muddy abandon.
And then there was a parting in the ranks of the Green of Pierrepont, and Torve the Trog stepped forward into the open. It was not his turn yet. Sir Henry’s presentation on behalf of Montague House was not complete. Of those who saw Torve, some were astonished, some were curious, and some thought it a hideous breach of manners. It was not his turn.
Torve hopped up to the platform beside Sir Henry. Two Trogs, one brown-and-white (with a few black stripes, very faint), the other gray-and-olive. Of much the same size, a fair match, a fair pair. One with eyes of truer blue.
Sir Henry did not notice Torve’s approach. He was lost, his eyes yet closed.
Torve stepped in front of Sir Henry, put four-fingered furry hands on his shoulders and squared him away. Sir Henry opened his eyes and saw what he had seen with his eyes closed—another Trog. Sir Henry put his four-fingered furry hands on Torve’s shoulders.
”Dance!” he said. “Dance!”
And Torve did dance. Together they frolicked their way through the Paddy Dance. As could be plainly seen from his coat, Torve had no experience of paddies, but he recognized a Paddy Dance when he saw one. There wasn’t a spectator watching to whom the dance did not communicate paddies.
They danced warmly, freely, meeting, separating, stomping, and bogging. It was warm, exciting, captivating to watch. The dance went on, finding its proper shape, and even those who at first had blamed Torve, then reluctantly pardoned him as an ignorant alien, now found themselves approving of him wholeheartedly.
At last the dance ended and applause exploded in imminent conjugation. Sir Henry and Torve bathed in the warmth, and Torve relaxed to the oncoming swell of event.
When the applause had begun to fade and the moment was ripe, Torve turned again to Sir Henry. As he had done before, he put his hands on Sir Henry’s shoulders and squared him away. When Sir Henry was squared, Torve drew back his furry spatulate foot and kicked Sir Henry in the leg with full deliberate power.
The crowd went “Oooh.”
Sir Henry cried and fell to the platform. Torve stood above him looking down, said “Thurb,” very positively and then turned and walked back to the Green of Pierrepont.
Lady Oliphaunt stood and said, “There! What did I tell you,” speaking to Sir Henry, to Villiers, or to herself. She sighed, and then she sighed again, a sigh broken off in exasperation. She took one step toward Sir Henry, and then another.
“Darling!” she said. “Oh, what have you done to yourself? Oh, what have you done?”
Sir Henry said nothing in return, but lay looking after Torve, coming to realizations. And nursing his leg. He now had more data about Trogs.
Lady Oliphaunt fell to her knees and gathered him up and only then did he look at her with real recognition.
“Amita,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
* * *
Jerzy McBe pushed his way through the crowd surrounding the Xochitl Sodality, surrounding the platform. The people were applauding the two Trogs. As he burst into the open, one Trog kicked the other and walked away.
He was faced with a choice and after a moment of indecision, he chose the immobile one. Of course.
“There you are, Trog,” he said, looking down at Sir Henry Oliphaunt. “I want a look at your papers.”
“He’s not a Trog,” said Lady Oliphaunt. “He’s my husband.”
“I’m not a Trog. I’m the Empire Administrator, Sir Henry Oliphaunt.”
“I’m here, McBe. I’m here,” came a voice behind McBe, and McBe turned with great relief. It was Slyne.
But it was Slyne with a difference. It was Slyne with his sensory amplifier in his hands and hideous pink wrinkles around his eyes.
Even without his sensory amplifier, Slyne could smell. He smelled the delicious flavor of Jerzy McBe. He whuffled.
“What is going on?” asked Slyne. He was torpid with blue cheese and muffins and had lost track.
“Sir, I have your Trog,” said Jerzy McBe.
“He does not,” said Lady Oliphaunt.
Slyne looked at Sir Henry, and lacking the benefit of his sensory amplifier, which would surely have told him the difference, he said, “Oh, yes. Very good, McBe. Sir, Trog, if you please, I would examine your papers.”
Jerzy McBe looked at Slyne with unrequited horror. He said, “Please, sir. Could you put your amplifier back on?”
Lady Oliphaunt said, “Show them, Henry. Please.”
He nodded and she helped him to his feet. And then, to the amazement of almost all, he began to emerge from his Troggish self like a butterfly shedding a cocoon, wet and shining and newborn.
Slyne did not need his amplifier to tell that this was no Trog. He donned it hurriedly to find what he was facing—in the process bringing McBe great relief. And he found that he recognized what he was facing.
“Sir Henry Oliphaunt,” he said. “Sir.”
But Sir Henry was staring around him at the wide, wide world and discovering to his joy and exaltation that he still wanted to dance.
; The sound of a flight of flitters could be heard in the dark night and the sound came closer and closer and then the flitters were setting down on the green itself. Robots popped out and began setting up tables and spreading out food.
As they began to play music, Lord Semichastny stood and said, “The food and music await you.”
The assembly cheered, because it had been a long night. They turned and began to move toward the waiting repast.
Lord Semichastny tapped Villiers on the shoulder. “Here, Nephew. I just discovered this. It must have been left in the pocket the last time I wore this coat.”
It was a money order for fifteen royals.
12
Lord Semichastny’s entertainment was held to be a great success and hugely enjoyed by the Xochitl Sodality and such unaffiliated onlookers as cared to join. They fed, wandered, wondered, talked, and mingled. They speculated as to which was more Marvelous, a Trog, or a Trog that was more than just a Trog. They listened to the music and to a story told by Charles to a collected circle. They talked to the various Marvels and before the night was done the astrologers were casting individual horoscopes and Mr. Dodd, the Christian Historian, had admitted that sometimes he thought he was not just a historian, sometimes he thought he believed.
* * *
Ossian Chimmeroon approached Lord Semichastny as he was signing Harbourne Firnhaber’s self-composed recommendation. (Who, after all, knew his virtues so well?)
“Congratulation, Friend Semichastny,” said Chimmeroon. “This is a delightful party. It’s a pity that we all did not know each other sooner. I most particularly enjoyed that luscious orange-red melon.”
“Did you like that?” asked Lord Semichastny. “That’s one of my own favorites, sir. It’s an Olatunge.”
They talked melons briefly, and then Chimmeroon burst out, “It’s really not right that your neighbors should force you out with this Winter-Summer Law. You have more friends than you know.”
“Do I?” asked Lord Semichastny. “Who?”
“We, the Monists of Delbalso. We are not inconsiderable friends to have. We’ll see about that law.” And he nodded emphatically.
Lord Semichastny looked after Chimmeroon as he walked away. Then he handed Harbourne his recommendation.
“Monists,” he said. “I don’t understand them.”
Harbourne reached into his coat and found the brochures he had been given at Joralemon House.
“Here you are, sir,” he said.
* * *
Parini arrived shortly and did a little cherry-picking before he came across Villiers. Villiers introduced him to Torve.
”Is pleasure,” said Torve. “I have met your daughter Louisa.”
”So I understand,” Parini said, not looking at him directly. And then he said, “Your papers arrived.” But he handed them to Villiers.
Villiers handed them to Torve. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “How did your evening go?”
“Profitably. And yours, Mr. Villiers?”
“Moderately profitably. Shall we settle on a price for the name?”
They dickered and concluded at a mutually satisfactory eight royals. However, Parini was unable to give Villiers change for his money order, so Villiers sent Torve to find Lord Semichastny.
Lord Semichastny came within minutes, putting his Joralemon House brochures away. “These are fascinating people, Charteris,” he said. “I’ve even been talking to some of them.”
Villiers introduced him to Parini.
“I’m sure I’ve encountered the name before,” said Lord Semichastny, and indeed he had.
Parini said, “Oh, I doubt it very much, sir. We are not a prominent family.”
Lord Semichastny proved to be able to change the money order and was willing to do it for only two percent. He took his two percent and went off to talk to more Monists. Villiers took his share, and handed the rest to Parini.
“The name?” he said.
Parini said, “The man who hired Solomon ‘Biff’ Dreznik to kill you was your brother, Robinet Villiers.”
Villiers nodded. “Thank you,” he said.
* * *
“Excuse me, Sir Trog,” Slyne said through his sensory amplifier. McBe hung at his heels. “May I see your Red Card and your Permit to Travel? Apparently through oversight they were not inspected when you arrived at the Castle.”
“Certainly,” said Torve, and handed them to the Orthodoxou.
* * *
On their way to Castle Rock, Mrs. Parini said, “I’ve been wondering, Jules.”
“About what?”
“What do you think of the possibility of Villiers and Louisa?”
“Villiers and Louisa what?”
“Becoming interested in each other.”
“What?” he said. “I should see my daughter tied to such a humorless man? Oh, no, I have plans for Louisa. I want her to learn to act like a lady, not become one.”
* * *
Anthony Villiers and Torve the Trog left the party before dawn, before the party was fully done. They went to Castle Rock and took passage from Delbalso.
Torve said goodbye separately to Badrian Beaufils, and Villiers spoke to Sir Henry and Lady Oliphaunt.
Lady Oliphaunt said, “Be careful of your friend, Tony.”
Villiers said, “We must judge by result, not by what we see.”
“I am,” she said soberly.
On their way to the port, Villiers said, “By the way, I had a letter from Louisa Parini. She says that Alice Tutuila and Norman Adams are to be married soon on Nashua, and we are invited. That makes two weddings we are called to attend on Nashua. I don’t see how we can refuse.”
“No. Is all right,” said Torve the Trog. “Soon, though, I think I wish to journey homewards to Trogholm.”
“We’ll do that,” said Villiers.
They left Delbalso in second-class accommodations on a good ship. They left Delbalso as the sun was turning Castle Rock from black to slanting marble.
* * *
In spite of her doubts, Lady Oliphaunt found Sir Henry and herself growing reconciled. The beginning of her stay on Delbalso was moderately tedious because of the Winter-Summer Laws, but after less than two years they were repealed and life then livened considerably so that when the end of Sir Henry’s largely successful administration was done, she actually regretted leaving Delbalso to return to Sir Henry’s country estates on Trefflewood.
Lord Semichastny did not leave Delbalso. He stayed, even under the strictures of the Winter-Summer Laws. In fact, after two months of consideration, he joined the Delbalso Monist Association and went to live at Joralemon House. He donated his country maison to the Monist Association and it became Coppersmith House, though there were scattered votes for “Semichastny House.” Charles the Robot managed the place very successfully for the Monists, as he had for Lord Semichastny. He joined the Monist Association himself, and was held in high regard by his fellows. His Monist career was so successful that he was able to convince two friends in the Merry Majordomos to join. And he was never ever required to wear orange—unless you should consider the Copper of Copppersmith House to be a shade of orange.
In spite of his glowing recommendation from Lord Semichastny, Harbourne Firnhaber did not feel ready to tackle Nashua. So he sat on random shelves for several more years and continued to ripen.
Sir Henry Oliphaunt kept his Trog suit. He never wore it and he never spoke of it to Lady Oliphaunt, but he kept the suit and sometimes late at night he would take it from its secret place and look at it. And there were other nights when he would suddenly rise from his chair and dance around the room.
End Book III
In The Universal Pantograph, the fourth Anthony Villiers adventure, such universals are discussed as Nominalism, Realism, marriage, the Great Ian Steele Contest, and Louisa Parini. To follow soon.
Table of Contents
Book I: Star Well
INTRODUCTION
1: "The universal soil is not uni
formly fertile."
2: "Of all the known objects in the Flammarion Rift, Star Well is the largest."
3: "Of all the irrelevant qualities that men have chosen to cherish, immensity is perhaps the least worthy."
4: "You can call the Empire a fiction if you like."
5: "Man once thought fire to be the wrath of the gods unleashed."
6: "I find it hard to believe in Inspector Generals."
7: "Most customs are foolish in themselves. . . ."
8: "Imagine yourself in a duel. . . ."
9: "When managers of illicit traffic meet, their biggest plaint is the employment problem."
10: "There is a good old expression down home—to cut and run."
11: "Will you admit that you have fears so breathtaking . . . ?"
12: "Adams bade his farewell to Alice at the end of Phibbs’ counter. . . ."
Book II: The Thurb Revolution
1: "Night is irregular."
2: "Successful robbers must be sturdy mature men in peak physical condition. . . ."
3: "Yagoots and their otherwise-named brethren are a historic commonplace."
4: "Within the bounds of the Nashuite Empire there are many worlds. . . ."
5: "The empire is a gallimaufry of cultures of which the so-called High Culture is only one."
6: "The Nashuite Empire is vast."
7: "Earth meditates, air questions, water dreams."
8: "There is a long-standing split among philosophers on the subject of names."
9: "Learning, playing and loving, and combinations thereof, are a good way to spend a lifetime."
10: The human animal’s most distinguishing characteristic is his need to manipulate objects."
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