The Mammoth Book Of Science Fiction

by Mike Ashley (Editor)

  “I’ve only met the butler and the housekeeper. They looked all right to me.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, Mr Kilborn.” The Count didn’t move from the shadows by the door. Even if he had, the rest of the room was so gloomy by now that it would have made no difference. He showed no interest in turning up the lights.

  I3 remembered then some of the things I3’d read about Count Proteus. He was a very private person. In fact, he was almost pathological about his privacy. When he was not working, he was invisible. He avoided photographers, granted no interviews, permitted no one near him. I3 was probably the first outsider to enter his house, and I3 certainly wasn’t getting a good look. It was hard to say whether this was all real, and I3 really didn’t care whether it was or not. What I3 wondered was whether it was going to make my3 work easier or harder.

  Proteus laughed softly and said, “So you found nothing unusual about Mrs Etherege and Middleton.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Well, I’ll have to tell that to the master, Mr Kilborn. And are you sure you don’t want a nice cup of tea?” It was Mrs Etherege’s voice, no question about it, and Proteus seemed to have gotten smaller and rounder as he stood there wringing his hands. Then, abruptly, he seemed to grow and swell, and I3 heard Middleton’s plummy voice say, “It is most gratifying, sir, to know that you do not find us suspicious characters.”

  “That’s pretty impressive, Count,” I3 said, trying not to show how impressive it really was. It was so impressive that it made me3 suspicious of everything I3’d seen.

  “It is my profession,” Proteus said in his normal voice – in the voice he’d first used, anyway – “And I am good at it. Are you as good at yours?”

  “I’ve done pretty well so far. You’ve heard of the Great Mulroney case, I suppose.”

  “I have indeed. A tragic affair.”

  “It could have been worse. I prevented a murder.”

  “I was referring to the tragic waste of talent, Mr Kilborn. The Great Mulroney was a gifted clone, but he squandered his gifts on pratfalls and pie-throwing. I am saddened by the thought of what he might have achieved.”

  “He almost achieved the murder of his manager.”

  Again Proteus laughed that soft private laugh. “We speak at cross-purposes, Mr Kilborn. But no matter. Serena has explained the reason for your presence. I feel no need for protection, but I have no wish to be difficult. You are welcome so long as you do not interfere with my work or make any attempt to violate my privacy. Is that understood?”

  “Understood.”

  “Millwood will acquaint you with my schedule and the household routine, and provide any necessary information. Good evening, Mr Kilborn.”

  He turned to leave. I3 said, “Just a minute, Count. I have a question.”

  “I have no time for it, Mr Kilborn. Question my staff, if you like.”

  “It’s about your staff. Is there really a Middleton and a Mrs Etherege, or are you playing games with me? Is there really a Millwood?”

  He stopped at the door, deep in the shadows, and said, “Millwood is real. As for the others . . . you claim to be a good detective. Find out for yourself.”

  He was gone before I3 could respond. I3 stood by the chair, trying to get things straight. It wasn’t easy. Proteus’s impersonation of Middleton and Etherege had been so flawless that I3 couldn’t be sure that the butler and housekeeper hadn’t been Proteus in disguise. But why would he do that? To test me3? If so, I3 had flunked. It might be some private joke, his own way of staying in practice, or keeping the world at arm’s length. Whatever his reasons, Count Proteus was going to be a tough client. I4 had the brains to handle him, but I3 felt that he could make me3 look foolish with very little effort. I3 decided that the smart thing to do was to wash my3 hands of Proteus after tonight, and turn him over to me4. Proteus would never know the difference. Solos never do.

  Then she entered the room, and any thought of changing assignments vanished at the sight of her. She was tall and slender, with a beautiful figure and the carriage of a queen. Her perfume was delicate; it made me3 think of spring and flowers and soft rain. Her honey-blonde hair was worn long and loose; her eyes were pale blue, her features perfect in an oval face. I3 looked at her in the glow of the fire, and knew that I3 would do anything this woman asked. I3 had fallen in love with her on the spot, and though I3 had no previous experience in permanent undying love, I3 knew that this was it. Fortunately, I3’ve learned to keep my3 feelings from showing, so when I3 introduced my3 self, my3 voice was steady.

  Her voice was a match for her appearance. It was soft and husky, a voice perfectly suited to firelight and a cozy room. “Morgana Millwood, Mr Kilborn. I’m pleased to meet you,” she said, holding out her hand. “Let’s sit by the fire. Is this light sufficient?”

  “It’s perfect, ma’am,” I3 said. She wore a dark blue dress of soft clinging material. The firelight struck highlights from it, and I3 had the crazy image of a goddess come down to earth wrapped in the night sky, stars and all. I3 had never thought like that before in my3 life, but the sight of Morgana Millwood was turning me3 into a poet.

  “Call me Morgana, please. And may I call you Joe?”

  “I’d be happy if you did.”

  Neither of us had moved. We stood looking into one another’s eyes without speaking, then we both spoke at once, in a rush, and then we laughed, embarrassed. She laid her hand on mine3 and said, “Joe, I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me.”

  I3 don’t know how to be subtle. I3 took her hand in both of mine3 and said, “If it’s the same thing that came over me, don’t be sorry.”

  “Joe, do you feel . . . ?”

  “I do, Morgana. I never did before, but I do now.”

  Then she was in my3 arms. I3 can’t describe how I3 felt. If you’ve been there you know, and if you haven’t you don’t, and no words will help you. After a time she took my3 face in her hands and looked up at me3, and then she laughed, a little shy laugh, so happy and innocent it made me3 fall for her all over again.

  “Joe, what’s happening to us? We’re not a couple of kids. We’re supposed to be talking about business,” she said.

  “Let’s talk business later.”

  “Business now, Joe. Then we’ll have time for other things.”

  We sat before the fire, drawing the chairs close, and she filled me3 in on the household routine and Proteus’s daily schedule. It was hard to keep my3 mind on business, but long habit carried me3 through when inclination made me3 want to consign to hell Count Proteus and Three for the Show and Serena Siddons and everything and everybody else but Morgana Millwood.

  Proteus ran his life like an elaborate timepiece. Everything was scheduled, and the schedule was sacred. He spent most of the day in his fourth-floor retreat, a combination of theater, gymnasium, studio, and rehearsal hall that was permanently off limits to the rest of the human race. Even Morgana had never set foot in it. He breakfasted every morning at nine-fifteen, then vanished upstairs. Mrs Etherege brought his lunch up at one-fifteen and placed it on a table outside the door. She picked up the tray, sometimes untouched, at two o’clock sharp. Proteus left his sanctum at four-thirty, when he withdrew to rest before going to theater or studio, or wherever he was playing. He was always home in time for a light supper at midnight, after which he vanished once again, presumably to sleep. This was his routine, day after day. Everything revolved around this schedule and a few inflexible rules: no visitors, no prying, no contact with the media.

  I3 would have thought that working for such a clock-bound fanatic had to rank low on anyone’s list of favorite occupations, but Morgana insisted otherwise, and claimed that Middleton, Mrs Etherege, and the rest of the staff agreed with her. If you could mind your own business and be punctual in the things that mattered to him, Proteus asked little else and paid generously for your service. And, she added, there was a kind of excitement in being so close to such a great and mysterious man.

  “S
o Middleton and Mrs Etherege are real,” I3 said. “For a time, I wondered. Proteus is so good I couldn’t tell him from the real thing. But why did he do it? He doesn’t have to impress me.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe he just felt playful.”

  “Maybe. He couldn’t fool me if he tried to impersonate you, though. Has he ever tried?”

  “I wouldn’t know. That’s another of his rules: none of us is ever to see him perform. He doesn’t even allow us near the theater.”

  “You mean you’ve never seen him act?”

  “None of us on the staff have. He’s adamant on that point.”

  “What about tapes? There must be tapes, and hollies.”

  “Very few, and he’d destroy those if he could. He doesn’t allow his work to be recorded. He believes that performance should be seen live or not at all.”

  “You work for a very strange guy, Morgana.”

  “Not so strange, Joe. He came up the hard way. Now that live theater is coming back, Count Proteus is in demand everywhere, and he can name his own terms.”

  “What about this Hamlet deal? There’ll be tapes and hollies of that. Does he know?”

  “Of course. He’s willing to compromise, just this once, for the chance to act in Hamlet. It will be the great achievement of his career. But there won’t be any recording of any kind until he’s satisfied with the performance. That’s in the contract.”

  “I still think he’s strange.”

  She looked at me3 earnestly and leaned forward to take my3 hands in a firm grip. Her perfume caressed me3 like a gentle spring breeze. “Think of what his life has been like, Joe. He’s impersonated all the giants of the stage in their great roles. He’s been Barrymore and Olivier and Gielgud as Hamlet, Walter Hampden and José Ferrer as Cyrano, Jason Robards as Hickey, Laurette Taylor as Amanda Wingfield – he’s always been playing the part of someone playing the part of someone else, always wearing one more mask than everyone else on stage. His idea of reality is bound to be different from yours and mine. Try to understand, Joe. He needs your understanding.”

  None of those names meant much to me3, but it was plain that they meant a lot to her, and I3 got the general idea. Proteus had made it to the top, but like all successful people he had changed along the way, and the changes hurt. A clone can have a thousand faces, but they’ll all be the same. It provides a certain security. For a solo, every face is different. No wonder there are so many crazy solos.

  “I’ll try to understand him, sweetheart. For your sake. You think a lot of Count Proteus, don’t you?”

  “He’s done a lot for me, Joe. I’ll always be grateful to him.”

  “Is that as far as it goes?”

  “I never loved Proteus as a woman loves a man, if that’s what you mean. Until today, I’ve never loved anyone. I still can’t believe what’s happened. The minute I saw you . . .” She looked at me3, wide-eyed, and shook her head helplessly.

  “Believe it. It happened to me, too,” I3 said.

  Morgana and I3 decided to keep things quiet, at least for a while. It’s unprofessional for someone in my3 business to fall for a client, and she didn’t want to do anything that might upset Proteus.

  As things turned out, it was not difficult to keep our relationship secret. The next few weeks were busy, and I3 got together with me1,2,4 only two or three times a week for a quick exchange of information. Morgana was free when Proteus was in his fourth-floor hideaway, but we couldn’t leave the house. Once he started rehearsing with Three, I3 had to stick with him and she couldn’t come along, thanks to his crazy rules. Rehearsals went on well into the night, and sometimes into the morning, and when Proteus and I3 returned to the townhouse, I3 still wouldn’t see Morgana for an hour or more. It was part of Proteus’s routine to dictate all his observations on the rehearsal to her, so she could organize them for study and have them printed out by breakfast time. The crazy hours were knocking Morgana out, but she didn’t complain. She knew that Proteus was a perfectionist. She had her job, and she did it.

  Seeing Proteus on stage gave me3 a different view of him. Sure, he was strange, but he knew his business. When he came on as Ophelia – she’s maybe sixteen years old, innocent and sweet – Proteus was little and frail. He was your kid sister, the girl next door, the beautiful princess from all the fairy tales you’ve ever heard. And not long after that, he was a bald, squat, pot-bellied old gravedigger with a boozer’s rasp in his voice and a wheezing cough. At the end of the play he was Fortinbras, a tough professional soldier, and he looked about six-foot-six with shoulders that wouldn’t go through a doorway head-on.

  He played other parts, too. They all did, and after a while I3 lost track and stopped trying to tell one from the other. But Proteus was the marvel on that stage. Nobody could stretch and shrink and bloat up and trim down like that night after night, I3 kept telling my3 self. But Proteus did it, and seemed to do it just a little bit better every time. It made me3 feel spooky when we rode home in his private roller after rehearsals. I3 was always afraid he’d start changing right before my3 eyes.

  Not that I3 could have seen it even if he had. Proteus could have turned into an octopus and I3 wouldn’t have known, the way he kept the roller darkened, and had his hat pulled down and his collar up. It bothered him to have anyone in the roller at all, even though I3 was seated up front and could only catch a glimpse of him by twisting around until my3 neck ached. Every time I3 did, he’d shrink into himself a little more. Proteus loved secrecy as much as he loved perfection.

  Just how much he loved his secrecy had become clear right away, when I4 ran the routine check on everyone involved in this project. Serena Siddons’s printout could have papered every wall in the office, with enough left over for the hall. Three’s was almost as extensive. The printout for Count Proteus ran to two sheets. Most of it was white space.

  I4 was furious. “Look at this! Date of birth: blank. Place of birth: blank. I can’t even get a continent!”

  “I told you he likes his privacy,” I3 reminded me4, and I1,2 got a laugh out of my4 reaction.

  I4 was not amused. This was a challenge to my4 skill, and I4 was ready now to sit at the terminal until doomsday in order to access Proteus’s background.

  “What’s the problem?” I2 asked. “That kind of privacy costs. If Proteus spent the money, let him enjoy it.”

  “He’s just building up his image as a mystery man. It’s strictly business,” I3 added.

  I4 was adamant. “Nobody is that secretive unless he has something to hide.”

  I1,3 exchanged a patient smile and I3 said, “So maybe he’s Wally Zunkfuddle from North Pinhole, Montana. People change their names when they go on stage, don’t they?”

  “Especially if the name is Wally Zunkfuddle,” I1 said.

  I4 still wasn’t happy, but there was no point arguing, and no reason to do a deep background search. After that, there was never enough time for one, or for anything else.

  Rehearsals went along smoothly, and soon opening night was a week away. It couldn’t come soon enough for me3. Even though there hadn’t been a hint of trouble, these clients were taking up a lot of time. I1,2,4 was down to four hours sleep a night. Between Proteus and Morgana, I3 wasn’t even getting that.

  Morgana was having it tough, too. Proteus turned up the pressure as opening night drew near, and she was run off her feet. That last week we spent our time together – never more than ten minutes at a stretch – sitting in his library, hand in hand, her head on my3 shoulder, both of us too tired to do anything but talk. In very short sentences.

  I3 still hadn’t told me1,2,4 about Morgana. I3 had the feeling that I4 suspected that I3 had something on my3 mind, but I1,2 didn’t seem to notice a thing. And even I4 probably didn’t suspect that a woman was involved. I3 wondered what I1,2,4’d say when I3 announced that I3 meant to get married. Clones and solos marrying isn’t all that unusual, but it had never come up before among me.

  The night before Hamlet was to open, I3 asked
Morgana to marry me3, and she accepted. We were both half knocked out with exhaustion, but I3’ll never forget taking her in my3 arms, just holding her close, breathing in the soft fragrance of her perfume, being happier than I3’d ever been before. She let a lot of painful things come out then, in that rush of happiness, things she’d never told anyone else. I3 had always figured that life was easy for a smart, beautiful woman. Morgana taught me3 otherwise.

  She’d been a foundling, an abandoned kid brought up in a series of homes, some good, some bad. The last one was the worst, so bad she ran away and was on her own at fifteen. She was a beauty even then, and that had caused her more problems than it solved. Her looks got her into show business, and after a few tough years she landed a job assisting a small-time impressionist who was just starting his career, doing the scroungy club circuit that was all the work he could get in those days. But in time, both he and the opportunities for live entertainers improved considerably, and he took to calling himself Count Proteus. She’d stayed with him as he went to the top.

  “He’ll miss you if you leave him after all these years,” I3 said.

  “I don’t think he will, Joe. He might even retire after this Hamlet. He can afford it now.”

  “I can’t picture a guy like him retiring.”

  “He will. And when he does, he may just disappear completely.”

  “If anybody can do it, Proteus can. But why would he?”

  “He’s tired, Joe. He’s worn out.”

  “He’s not the only one.”

  We both yawned, and that set us laughing, very softly and wearily, hardly making a sound. She said, “Only one more night, Joe.”

  “You’ll still be knocking yourself out for Proteus.”

  “Once the show’s opened, we’ll have a lot more time together. I have a feeling that Proteus will agree to the hollies early on. It won’t be a long run, and once it closes, we’ll be free to marry whenever we like.”

  “I’ll get the license tomorrow – just in case the show is a flop,” I3 said.