by Damon Knight
“Leave me alone,” said Dick with difficutly. “Will you? Will you do that, old man?”
“Look, Dick—”
“You look!” said Dick, exasperated beyond reason. “Everywhere I go, I see your slobby face! Mush off! Flap!”
Cashel stood there with his white face, and his heavy hands hanging, and said, “Dick, apologize.”
Dick turned away without answering. Cashel did not follow him.
The house was filling up again; some of the guests were streaming downstairs for the bowling tournament, some gathering for cards and dice. Dick prowled purposefully through the house, glancing into each game room and lounge. In the Upper Hall he ran into his mother, serenly promenading with a group of ladies in flustered hats. She saw him before he could get clear.
“Dick, is something the matter?” She put her plam against his cheek, ignoring his attempt to pull away. “You’re feverish, darling.”
“It’s hot out in the open,” said Dick.
“Ladies,” she said without turning, “I think you know my son Richard.”
Unmoved in the chorus of “Oh, yes,” “My, how you’ve grown,” and “Aren’t you a lucky young man,” she fixed him with a clear, ironic gaze. Dick’s mother was a tall blonde woman, majestically built like all the Dabneys. Her features were too strong for beauty—Dick and Constance both resembled her, which, Dick privately thought, was a good thing for himself, and a pity for Con—but in her bearing and manner shw was the perfect embodiment of the ideal bighouse wife. She was as brave as a man. In her maiden days, it was said, she had once struck down a crazed slob with a mashie, and then resumed her game as calmly as if there had been no interruption.
Now she said, “Of cours,e if you’re sure—”
Dick finished his dutiful nods and bows to her companions. Feeling acutely uncomfortable, he said. “It may not be anything. I have to talk to Dad first—do you know where he is?”
“Try the den.”
Her hand touched his shoulder as she moved away, and then her clear voice was receding down the Hall: “… this wing, as you know, was rebuilt by my husband’s father in the nineties …”
Dick went on, moving faster. The elevators were all busy with guests, so he took the escalator to the top floor, and then climbed the tower stair. In the cool, leather-smelling dimness of the vestibule, he knocked at the carved ebony door, then entered.
His father was seated behind a glass-topped ebony desk, narrow head bent. He glanced up from the letter he held in his hand. “Yes, Dick?” he said. “Sit down; I’ll be just a moment.”
Dick sat on the broad window seat that followed the curve of the tower. From here, looking down the south slope, he could see the early sun glinting off the speedboat lake. The red stable roofs showed above the trees, and beyond that, the gray hunched bulk of the old fortifications. Vine-grown and crumbling now, they had encircled the whole estate in Dick’s grandfather’s time—three levels of steel and concrete, with walls fifteen feet thick in places, and a moat that once could have been filled with fuming acid in ten minutes. The first Jones had been a cautious man who believed that attack on Buckhill, if it ever got beyond the stage of small aircraft raids, would come as a mass attack of foot soldiery.
Nobody, as it happened, had ever attacked Buckhill at all. (As a child, Dick had always imagined that his grandfather must have died a disappointed man.) Most of the fortifications had got in the way of one thing or another in later years, and been pulled down; this one piece was all that was left. There hadn’t been even a local war in twice Dick’s lifetime… .
He turned to look at his father, erect in the carved ebony chair that seemed to belong to him, thought its thick arms made his seem spindling. A faint, cool light played on his head from the prism in the skylight, twenty feet above; around the skylight well, tier on tier of bookshelves went up, heavy grave-looking volumes of rich red and brown leather, tooled and stamped. The windows were shut; the air was heavy with the odors of paper, leather, tobacco, polished wood. If it were my room, Dick thought involuntarily, I’d open all the windows and let the wind blow throught… .
His father glanced at him, folded the letter and sat back, taking a thin hunting-case watch from his vest. He opened it, snapped it shut again. “All right, Dick, what is it?”
Dick said, “I think Cashel’s going to try to get permission to call me out.”
He braced himself, without quite knowing why; but the Man said only, “Tell me about it.”
Dick did so, as briefly as he could, ending: “When I got back to the house I saw Cash once more, and I think he saw me. But he went on by. He had a kind of a look on his face.”
“Yes?”
“He looked as if he’d made up his mind.”
The man nodded, looking tired and thoughtful. He spread the papers on his desk idly, then pushed them aside. “It’s awkward, Richard. I suppose there’s no doubt that you provoked him, not the other way around?”
Dick heistated. “No, I guess not,” he said unwillingly.
“I’m not asking for explanations, or exhibitions of penitence,” said his father precisely. “Nor am I going to give you a lecture. You were armed, you provoked a quarrel. When I gave you permission to wear a handgun, I tacitly agreed to treat you as a man in matters of personal honor. I am going to do so. If this challenge is made—” The telephone rang.
The Man answered it. “Yes. Very well, send them up.” He put the receiver back. “When the challenge is made,” he said “I’ll do everything I can as the head of your family … I assume you do wish me to act for you?”
Dick swallowed hard. “Yes, please, Dad.”
“Very well. If you wish any advice, I will of course give it. But I think the choice is fairly clear. You fight, or back down.”
“Yes, mister,” said Dick, moistening his lips. He felt bewildered and, to be absolutely honest, a little scared, but one thing he was sure of: he was not going to make the Man ashamed of him.
After a considerable time, the door opened and Uncle George entered. Behind him were his brother-in-law, Uncle Floyd Logan, and a cousin of Aunt Jo Anne’s named Alec Brubaker. Uncle Floyd was older than the rest, a dark paunchy man with bad teeth. Cousin Alec was fair skinned, wispy and nervous. Last of all came Cashel,looking sullen.
Dick’s father looked them over coolly. “I think you’ll find that settee comfortable, if a trifle crowded,” he said. “Dick, bring a chair for Cashel.”
Uncle George’s choleric flush was a shade deeper when he spoke. “Fred, I’m afraid you misunderstood—this matter is private.”
The Man raised an eyebrow. “So? But your son Cashel is present.”
“Cashel is the injured party.”
“If one of my family has injured him,” the Man said dryly, “I don’t suppose it was my wife or daughter, and my other sons are all too young to give serious offense. That leaves Richard, if I am not mistaken.”
Uncle George nodded. “Well, Fred, it is Dick.”
“Then he had best stay. And since you have brought your other relations—” The Man pressed the buzzer on his desk.
“It’s a family affair, Fred,” said Uncle George.
“Just so.” To the slob who appeared in the desk screen, the Man said, “Go and find Mr. Orville Dabney and Mr. Glenn Dabney, and ask them to be so kind as to join us here.” The picture clicked off. The Man looked coolly at his guests without speaking. The silence grew.
At length Dick’s two maternal uncles came in, looking grim and wary: tall blond men both, crag-faced, with fierce blue eyes and bairy hands. Orville Dabney, the elder, was known for his habit of tossing men over his head when provoked, and worrying about protocol afterward. Glenn dabney, who wore a thick curling mustache, was shorter and quieter, but no less dangerous. The lobe of his right ear was missing—shot off, it was said, in a duel he had fought with a visiting Cornishman in his youth.
The Man greeted them formally, invited them to sit. The little room grew croweded and ho
t. The Man opened the humidor on his desk and passed it around. While the men were cutting and lighting their cigars, he put his fingertips together and quietly began to speak.
After a moment, Dick realized that he was rehearsing the whole history of the Jones, Dabney and Logan families, from the Turnover up. He saw hands poised in mid-air and surprised expressions around the room as the same delated realization struck the others; then they were all silent and attentive. It was a matter of family pride to listen to that story, but not only that: as the Man told it, the story itself was fascinating.
One after another, the leading figures of all three families were sketched in—Jeremy Logan, who had fought the Morganists at Pimple Hill and Big Pocono; Fabrique deForest Dabney, the founder of the line, whom the family slobs still claimed to see on moonlit nights, riding like a domon and dressed in nothing but his famous white bread; Edward R. Jones and his single-handed conquest of Buckhill.
As he listened, although he knew the story by heart, Dick grew aware as never before, not only how proud a record his family had, but how precarious a thing it was.
The first Jones had taken Buckhill away from the former holder by what amounted to a low trick—disguising himself as a slob to enter the house, and throwing old August Boyle out of his own bedroom window. That was colorful family history now, but if the same thing happened over again today, it would be a crime.
Then there was the third Man of Buckhill, Edward’s brother Leonard A. Jones, who had taken over the house when Edward died in a riding accident—and whom the present Man had had to challenge and kill, in order to get his rights when he returned from Colorado. Power was a delicate thing, the story seemed to say; those who had it must hold it firmly but carefully—must cherish it, and he wise.
“And Frederick begat Richard, and George begat Cashel,” murmured Dick’s father. “The rest of the story, I believe, is yours, George.”
Silence fell. The eyes of the company turned to look at Uncle George, who straightened, sighed regretfully, and planted both heavy hands on his knees. “Fred, and you men, here’s the whole thing in a nutshell. My boy Cashel came to me a little while ago and said, `Dad, I want your permission to fight a duel with Dick.’ Well, I was shocked. I said, `Why, what’s he done?’ `Called me a slob,’ he said.” Uncle George looked around the room in an open, manly fashion, “Men, I tried to be fair. I said, `Cashel, what did you do to provoke a statement like that from your cousin?’ He looked me in the eye and said, `Dad, I only wished him good luck in going to Eagles in Colorado.”’
Dick felt hot and cold by turns. He shifted his weight on the window seat until a glance from his father warned him to be still. Diagonally across the room, he was aware of Cashel staring miserably at his own hands.
Uncle George, gathering confidence as he went along, was saying. “I told him, I said, ‘A duel isn’t a thing you rush into, especially between blood relations,’ but I told him, ‘We’ll go and talk to your Uncle Fred. I know he’ll want to do what’s fair.”’ He leaned back and spread his hands. “So, men, here we are.” After a long moment, Uncle Orville spoke. “Let’s here the other side of it.”
“The offense was given,” said Dick’s father at once. “We admit that, to save argument.”
Orville nodded and sat back.
Uncle Floyd said, “Then there’s just three ways about it. Either the one cub withdraws, or the other apologizes, or they fight.”
They all chewed on that in silence for a moment. Uncle Orville and Uncle Glenn exchanged glances with each other and with the Man. As if some intelligence had passed among them, Uncle Orville turned and asked, “Will y’ let your boy challenge, or not?”
Uncle George looked ruffled. “That’s not an easy decision to make. If we get an apology, of course—”
“First things first,” said Uncle Orville briskly.
Uncle Floyd put in. “That don’t mean we can’t discuss it beforehand. The question is, Fred: if our boy withdraws, will yours apologize?”
All eyes turned on the Man expectantly. To Dick’s surprise, he said merely, “Ask my son.”
Before Dick could speak—indeed, before he had any idea what to say—Uncle Floyd burst out, “Wait a minute, Fred. You can’t put it up to the boy, he’s under ago.”
“I can, and will,” said the Man.
The Jones-Logan men seemed to consult one another with a glance. Uncle George said gravely, “Fred, you don’t seem to realize. A duel is a serious matter.”
“So is an apology.”
There were assenting murmurs from the Dabneys, and, reluctantly, even from Uncle Floyd and Cousin Alec.
“What do you say, George?” Cousin Alec asked.
“I want satisfaction,” Uncle George muttered.
Orville learned forward. “Mean y’ll let him challenge?”
“I didn’t say that,” Uncle George retorted. “I haven’t made up my mind.” He turned angrily to the Man. “You’re not giving me much accommodation, Fred.”
The Man did not reply.
“All right, now here’s what it comes to,” Uncle George said after a moment. He leaned forward to look directly at Dick. “Dick, if we should agree to withdraw, will you apologize?”
Out of the corner of his eye Dick could see his father’s attentive face. The Man did not move nor make any sign, but some instinct prompted Dick to suppress the answer that occurred to him.
He said, “I’ll have to wait till the time comes to decide that, Uncle George.”
There was a stir as the men sat back in their places. “That puts it in your lap, George,” said Uncle Orville with a graim smile.
Uncle George was scowling, and his face was dark; a vein swelled over one eye. Uncle Floyd was smiling a sour smile around his cigar; Cousin Alec was gnawing a thumbnail, his yellowish eyes turned up toward Uncle George like a hound’s.
In the silence, the chiming of bells came faintly to them up the tower stair. “That will be the banquet call,” said Dick’s father, opening his watch. He clicke it shout precisely and put it away in his pocket. “Shall we go down, then, and leave this dicussion until later?”
Uncle George glanced at his kinsmen briefly. He hesitated, then grunted and rose. “All right with me.”
The others got up and moved toward the door. Was that all? Was it really over so quickly?
The disappointed slope of Uncle George’s shoulders seemed to say that it was.
Up and down the Big Hall, in a ceaseless hum and shuffle of feet, the guests were taking their places. The orchestra was playing something bland and tuneful, with chimes in it; slobs were everywhere, guiding guests, holding chairs, serving cocktails and wine.
The narrow family table stood at the head of the room, slightly raised; places were laid only on one side, so that no one had his back to the guests. Dick found himself seated next to his father and mother, among the adults. It seemed a long way down from this eminence to his former place at the end of the table, from which Adam and the others were peering worshipfully up at him.
The other half of the table, as usual, was occupied by Uncle George and his family—as effectively concealed from Dick, where he sat, as if they had been all the way across the room.
Savory odors drifted in from the kitchen. Slobs at the service tables in the corner were pouring more cocktails from gigantic shakers. Soup tureens came down the aisles in silvery flotillas, gallons of soup, soup enough to drown a man, all fragrantly steaming.
It was, Dick discovered, mock turtle—his favorite. The whole banquet seemed to have been decently planned to suit his tastes, in fact. As he picked up his spoon, the Man’s voice said, “How much have you eaten today, Dick?”
Dick stared at him. The Man’s neat, small features were serious, as always. “Well, breakfast—ham and eggs—and then I had a piece of cheese and some milk around lunch time. And some nuts. Why?”
“Eat sparingly now,” said the Man. “You may have a litle soup and some game. No fowl, no fish, no seafood, no pa
stry. And no wine. Pretend to be eating more than you are. Is that clear?”
Dick’s mouth fell to watering.
“Do you understand?” his father insisted.
His own mouth sounded thick. “I suppose so.” This was really too much—his own farewell banquet! Oh, damn! “But Dad—”
“Yes?”
“I thought the duel was all off.”
“What gave you that impression?”
Dick floundered. “Well, I don’t know—”
“It may be off. I venture to hope so. But meanwhile, you will take the precautions I mentioned.”
The noise was such that he could barely make out the words. Tumblers, traded for the occasion from a Canadian connection of the Dabneys’, came whirling down the bare center table, pinwheels of red and yellow tights; they unwound, leaped, bowed, and became jugglers. One of them, the tall fellow, unaccountably stumbled and dropped a red rubber ball, which bounced into Mitchel Krauss’s soup. Krauss stood up with a howl of wrath and flung a wine bottle at the slob. Struck fair in the ribs, the fellow toppled, off balance, and fell kicking in the aisle. Mirth exploded around him; Krauss and his crony Roscoe Burns clinked glasses, splattering themselves and their fat wives, already choking with laughter.
Off to the right, an even merrier din arose from the slobs’ table, where the Rev. Dr. Hamper, Padgett, Blashfield and Dr. Scope presided over the upper servants.
The remaining two tumblers finished their act and went off. Dick noticed the one who had fallen being carried out—in pain, by the look of him. Probably he had broken a rib or two. That showed you Krauss’s lack of consideration, but then, everybody knew he treated his own slobs the same way.
The soup was followed by game and Burgundy, with highballs for those who wanted them. Under the lights, the centerpieces steadily wilted. The faces of the waiters as they hurried by were gray with fatigue, sweat-streaked. The diners’ faces gleamed with grease and exertion; their mouths opened to roar with laughter, and closed around gobbets of rich hot meat, potatoes and gravy, savory Brussels sprouts, artichokes in hollandaise sauce, slices of cranberry jelly. Little Echols choked, barked, turned purple, and was heartily thumped on the back. At the younger tables there was a good deal of bun-throwing, and fencing with bunches of celery. Several small children, screaming with rage, had to be led off in disgrace by governesses.