A for Anything

by Damon Knight

  From the yellow glow of light beyond him, an ironic voice said, “Just a day or two, eh? Viv, I give up.”

  When he awoke again, he had a little trouble remembering where he was and how he had got there. He sat up, and a girl in yellow came over immediately from the other side of the room. “Feeling better?” she asked, smiling pleasantly. “Like a little breakfast?” She was young and not bad-looking, if you could overlook the green slob-mark in the middle of her forehead.

  “No, I’m not hungry.” Under the coverlet, he discovered, he was wearing some kind of elaborate sleeping garment with a drawstring throat. He started to swing his legs over the side of the bed. “Just get me my clothes.”

  The girl looked anxious, and pressed him gently back. “Oh, no, please, Mister Jones. Lady said you must stay in bed until you feel better. Please, now.”

  His head was throbbing abominably, and he was in no mood to argue. He pushed her out of the way and stood up. His legs were weaker than he had expected. He had to catch onto the bedpost to steady himself.

  The slob girl was backing away. “Oh, dear. Miz’ Demetriou!”

  The door opened and a woman came rustling in with quick, determined steps. “Now, really. Get back in the bed, do you hear?”

  Rather than fall and make a spectacle of himself, Dick sat down on the bed. The slob girl helped him put his legs up, and tucked the coverlet around him. “That’s all,” the woman told her, and sat down gracefully in the bedside chair. “We haven’t been properly introduced,” she said; her throaty voice dwelt mockingly on the next to last word. “I’m Mrs. Charles Demetriou; you’re Mr. Richard Jones: how do you do?”

  It was the first chance he had had to see her clearly. She was a slender woman, dressed this morning in a full-skirted violet negligee, with a toque of the same color perched on the brown, glossy waves of her hair. Her face was lean and brown, hollow under the cheekbones; she had great dark eyes, heavy-lidded.

  Dick was feeling short-tempered. He only half remembered the conversation he’d heard the day before, but there had been an argument about whether to help him or leave him, he recalled; and anyhow, this woman had been a witness of his humiliation.

  “I’m glad to know you,” he said shortly. “Nice of you to help out, and so on, but I’m all right now. If you’ll just send a message to my body-slob to come and get me—” When she did not speak, but continued to look at him unsmilingly, he felt uncomfortable enough to add: “I can rest up just as well in my own place. I don’t want to seem ungrateful or anything, but—”

  “But you do,” she said. “Very.” She stood up, slender and erect, and put her hand on a old-fashioned French phone that stood by the bedside. She posed there as if she had forgotten what she set out to do. “Is your valet reliable?”

  “I don’t know,” said Dick. “They sent him around from the bureau. I guess he’s all right.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Albert.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said earnestly. “A gawky sort of thing, who always looks as if he needs a haircut?”

  “Yes, that’s him. Why?”

  “But he’s the worst servant in Eagles; they give him to overnight visitors—couriers, and people like that. Dear Mr. Jones, couldn’t you do any better?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” said Dick; the headache was worse, and it was hard to listen. “They told me you can’t bring your own slobs into Eagles.”

  “Well, of course, that’s true, but still—” She took her hand away from the phone and stood by the chair, looking down at him. “Does your head hurt?”

  “Some.”

  “I should think it would. Here.” She took an ice bag from the table and laid it gently on his swollen temple. Her scent when she leaned over him was unobtrusive and fresh, something like sandalwood, not cloyingly sweet like most women’s. “Why did you pick that fight with Ruell, anyway? Didn’t you know this would happen?”

  “I thought I might as well,” said Dick, defensively. “I’m not much worse off this way, but if I’d won—”

  She sniffed delicately. “He happens to be the best stickman in Eagles; but you didn’t know that, did you?”

  “No,” said Dick, feeling belatedly foolish. Well, but what else could he have done? If it came to that, what could he do next?

  Whatever he did, he mustn’t seem to be asking for sympathy. “I really had better be going,” he said. “If I could just have my clothes—”

  “Don’t be foolish,” she said, unsmiling. “Maybe we can help you. Tell me, what did you think would happen if you did beat Ruell?”

  “I don’t know. It was a loony idea, I guess, but I couldn’t think of anything better. I thought I could make him call off his dogs.”

  “His dogs?”

  “He’s got Van Etten and I don’t know who all else working with him. I can’t get my commission, or make a call home—”

  Her fists clenched. “That lizard! That just makes me furious, to hear—” She turned. “Howard, come in and listen to this; you won’t believe your ears.”

  “No?” said a voice Dick recognized. A tall man came leisurely toward them across the room, broad-shouldered in a plain yellow shirt. He was young, only a few years older than Dick; he had a pleasant, narrow face and a narrow mustache, and he was smoking a lean, long cigar.

  “Richard Jones, Howard Clay. Now tell us the whole story, Richard, because we’re all friends together. Howard, listen to this.”

  “I’m listening.” Clay perched himself on the end of the bed and leaned back against the bedpost; his brown eyes were friendly but ironical.

  Seeing no way out of it, Dick told them everything that had happened to him from the first day. When he had finished, Clay whistled softly. “I admire your spunk, anyhow,” he said. “But you went about Ruell the wrong way. He’s provoked now; he’ll never let you go unless you give in.”

  Dick’s hands clenched into fists on the coverlet. “There must be some way out. Is that what you have to do here, to get along—let somebody barter you off like a slob, or an animal?”

  There was an awkward pause. “I wouldn’t put it just like that,” said the lady, with marked coolness. Clay leaned over and stubbed out his cigar in an ashtray; his eyes were narrowed.

  “Well, I’m sorry,” said Dick; “but that’s how it seems to me.”

  “Tell me,” Clay said, “have you thought of appealing to the Boss?”

  Dick hesitated. “I don’t know. Do you think that would work?”

  “No; but it’s the only fool thing you haven’t done yet. Now look here, Mister Jones, my advice to you is this: Find yourself a protector, don’t wait for Ruell to do it for you. Get somebody to your liking, and if possible somebody a cut above Ruell, so he won’t dare make too much trouble. Let your friend barter him off, or frighten him off, or whatever, and you’ll be all right. Otherwise, Ruell will make you eat dirt. He’ll keep you cooling your heels until you’re ragged, and then he’ll put you in the Misfit Battalion, and that only for a beginning. It’s the truth.” Clay rose gracefully, turned his back, and strolled off across the room, hands in his pockets.

  The woman looked after him thoughtfully. “Howard.”

  “Yes?” he said over his shoulder.

  “I think I’m going to do it.”

  He swung around. “I knew you were going to say that. You’re insane, you know. You might as well take on the Magyar Corps de Ballet; you can’t feed them, either.”

  “Charles will have to give me a larger quota,” she said.

  Clay sniffed. “Yes, but will he?”

  “He’ll have to.” She turned to Dick. “Would you like me to adopt you, Richard?”

  Dick hesitated. For some reason he did not feel that he would like it at all, and yet reason told him that he couldn’t afford to let any honorable opportunity slip away. “What would I have to do for it?” he asked.

  “Do for it?” she repeated wonderingly. “Oh, I see. Richard, how old do you think I a
m?”

  The sudden question did not appear to surprise Clay; he came nearer and put his foot up on the arm of the chair, and they both watched Dick with silent enjoyment.

  He looked at her: her skin seemed firm and unlined, except for a trace of crepiness around the eyes. There was no loose flesh under the chin and her hands did not seem wrinkled or heavily veined; those were supposed to be the tell-tales. Her figure was as slim as a young woman’s. There was nothing about her that seemed old, except perhaps the confident stare of her eyes and the determined mouth. And yet there was none of the softness of youth about her anywhere: her very slimness was almost skeletal, and the fine bones showed through her face.

  She was probably at least forty; he had better lop off a few years for politeness. “Thirty-five?” he said.

  They both smiled. Her smile made her seem girlishly delighted; she said, “Much more than that. I’m—well, I’m old enough. I have a grandson almost your age. Haven’t I, Howie?”

  “Mm,” said Clay, biting off the end of a fresh cigar.

  “Let me understand this,” said Dick. “You’d clear up this trouble about my commission, and using the TV, and so on?”

  “And feed you, and clothe you decently,” said Clay. “You’ve been on a visitor’s quota, I expect, haven’t you? Well, Vivian will have to do better for you than that; how, I don’t know, but if she says so, I suppose she’ll do it.” He glanced at her out of the corners of his narrow eyes.

  She put her hand on his arm. “Don’t worry, Howie,” she said quietly.

  Clay seemed reassured. “And for all this,” he told Dick, “you won’t even have to carry a parcel … unless you feel like it. Vivian demands nothing—she’s a philanthropist.”

  The woman gave him a look which Dick could not interpret. “Oh, you,” she said, and turned with a smile. “Then it’s all settled—yes?”

  Dick was remembering Ruell’s matter-of-fact voice: “Nothing is ever given for nothing, at Eagles.” Across the bed, these two strangers were looking at him with something unspoken in their eyes.

  But how could he say anything except “yes”?

  The screen flickered and blurred, out of synch.

  “Dad? Is that you?”

  “I’m here, Richard. You’re coming in clear and strong; what’s the matter at that end?”

  “It’s—Oh, it’s all right now.” The blurred streaks of color coalesced into his father’s face, greenish in the shaded parts. Dick touched up the red control, turned down the blue; the face took on a more normal appearance. “How is everybody?”

  “We’re all well, here. Richard, we’ve been trying to get in touch with you ever since your arrival. Your mother has been—”

  “Dick, dear!” His mother’s face came into view; her voice sounded strained. “We’ve been so worried. Why haven’t you called?”

  Dick heard himself saying, “There’s been a jam-up with the scrambled circuits.” He had had no conscious intention of lying, but he saw now that the truth was impossible, it would have involved too many explanations.

  “Well, at least you’re all right,” she said, staring earnestly at him out of the screen. “It’s so good to see you, dear. You look a little tired.”

  “No doubt he’s been busy,” said his father. “Your commission came through, I take it?”

  “Yes, Dad. I’m in the Fifth Horse, under General Myer.” Clay had taken him around to Van Etten’s office the day after his drubbing, and Van Etten, his demeanor changed as if by magic, had settled the whole matter in five minutes.

  His father nodded approvingly. “That’s a good outfit. You spoke to Ruell?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did he arrange a connection for you?”

  “Well, not exactly, Dad.” He hesitated: here, surely, he had to explain the whole business; but where was he to start?

  His father’s expression sharpened. “No? Do you mean you haven’t got a connection?”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve got one—Mrs. Demetriou; she’s very nice. But Ruell and I had a kind of a disagreement… .” His voice trailed away.

  “A woman?” his mother asked. “Fred, I’m not sure I care for that. Dear, what kind of a woman is she? How did you meet her? Is she—”

  “I’ve heard of her,” his father said. “It’s all right.” He looked steadily at Dick. “You haven’t made an enemy out of Ruell, I hope?”

  “Oh, no, Dad.” An outright lie.

  “Very well. Richard, the children want to say hello to you, and then we’ll talk again.”

  His mother moved reluctantly away from the screen. “Dick, be sure to write as soon as you can …” He realized with a curious shock that she looked older than she had when he left.

  Ad and Felix tumbled into view, shouting, “Hello, Dick!” followed by Constance looking oddly grown-up, with her hair done on top of her head, and young Edward in Miss Molly’s arms, all beaming and babbling at the same time… .

  His father shooed them out of the room after a few moments, and stood with his head turned, waiting to be sure they were out of earshot; then he turned and looked at Dick silently.

  “How are things,” Dick asked, “at Twin Lakes?”

  “As well as could be expected,” his father answered. “The decoy plane we sent returned safely, you may be interested to know.”

  Dick started; he had forgotten about it.

  “However, that’s a small matter,” his father continued. “What I wanted to discuss with you, Richard—” He hesitated, uncharacteristically, and began again with a frown of distaste. “You may possibly remember the juggler who fell and was injured during the banquet.”

  Dick thought a moment. “Oh. Yes, I think so.”

  “We found some filth concealed in his clothing—pamphlets. Directions for making weapons out of kitchen knives and garden implements. Worse things.”

  Dick felt himself paling with shock. “You mean our slaves—?”

  “Some of them must have received copies without reporting it. We don’t know which ones. We’ve never used manacles here, Richard, but I think under the circumstances we have no choice.”

  “Yes, of course, Dad.” He moistened his lips. “But; I mean, I can’t believe—”

  “No, neither can I. Our slaves have always been loyal. But there’s something in the air this year, Richard; I’ve felt it in Richmond and other places. I think it’s best to be prepared. Well, Richard, that’s all, then, I think.”

  “Yes, Dad. Good-by.”

  The picture rushed toward its center, a streaky whirlpool of color, twitching, dwindling, gone.

  Chapter Nine

  After a month he was beginning to feel almost at home in Eagles. There were some things about it that he didn’t like, some that disturbed him, some he couldn’t understand, but on the whole, there was no denying that it was a fascinating place to be. Eagles was inexhaustible; it covered the whole south and east faces of the mountain-top in dozens of bewilderingly split levels. There was an underground games arena where football and baseball were played by team of slaves; there was a library, housed in an area bigger than the main building at Buckhill; there were collection halls, gardens, observatories. There were whole sections that Dick had never seen, and was not likely to without special permission; even leaving these out, the place was forever changing, always full of new things. No one ever seemed to let well enough alone; you might awaken to find that the corridor outside had been repaved in slabs of turquoise, or that the little Moorish courtyard just this side of the Grand Promenade had vanished and been replaced by an aquarium full of incredible fish—frilled, golden, stately fish that made you want to stand and stare at them.

  But there was never time to pause very long anywhere. Something else always beckoned, or there was an appointment to keep, or clothes to be fitted for a party—clothes alone took an astonishing amount of time—or if not that, then girls, or Vivian. On the whole, he had to admit that he didn’t see much of Vivian, she disappeared sometimes for days;
but there were times when she wanted to be escorted somewhere by four or five protégés, and then it was only common courtesy, considering how much they all owed her.

  He frowned. His valet, Alex, who was certainly ten times better trained than the one he had had before, or Sam at home, either, for that matter—although Dick was rapidly learning to accept his unobtrusive deftness as a standard—Alex immediately stopped finicking at the folds of his neckcloth, stepped back, and with his head a little on one side examined the effect.

  “Alex, we haven’t anything on with Mrs. Demetriou today, have we?”

  “Not that they’ve told us about, mister. We haven’t seen the Missis this week.”

  “That’s right, good. I was thinking of the opera, but that’s Friday. Is Mr. Clay here yet?”

  “I see, mister.” Alex stepped to the door, glanced out. “Just arriving, mister, this minute.”

  “Well, are you through with this damned neck-cloth?”

  “Dick!” came Clay’s voice from the outer room. “Let’s go—we’re late already.”

  “I haven’t had breakfast!” Dick protested.

  Clay popped his head in the doorway. “It’s almost one o’clock, you fungus. Come on, do you want to see the Tower or don’t you? Make up your mind.”

  “All right.” Alex was holding out his new morning jacket; he slipped his arms into it. It was hand-loomed, watered silk, in a pattern that gave him height. “Are Thor and Johnny coming?” he asked.

  “No, just the two of us—I could only get two places.” Alex was fastening the belt and chains; Clay picked up the striped silk cap from the dressing table and clapped it on Dick’s head. “Come on,” he said, dragging him toward the door. “I tell you, we’re late.”

  Clay had a chair waiting. As soon as they got into it the chairboys started off at a trot; but they were hardly well into the main corridor when they slowed down again. There was some sort of turmoil up ahead; people were drawing back to either side of the corridor, chairs and pedestrians alike. They followed suit. Down the wide empty avenue came a little group of men at a walking pace. In the lead was a heavy man of about fifty; he moved slowly and ungracefully, bloated and stiff under a gray mantle. On either side and a little behind walked a Household Guard with a holstered pistol, the first firearms Dick had seen in Eagles. Behind came an empty chair pushed by two slobs, and trailing on either side were four or five men in formal dark morning dress.