“All aboard!” caroled Lynelle Rogers. “I’ll drive.”
We piled in, glad that the interior was heated since the outside temperature was well below freezing. Lynelle took the reins, which entered the coach through a befurred slot, shook them, and gave a command in the Poltroyan language through a speaking tube. The mechanical jackalopes galumphed off in comical unison and we all rolled about laughing. The beasts even had sleighbells, another feature that the Poltroyans had borrowed from humanity.
The trip was a short one, but the illusion of an expansive snowy countryside was nearly perfect. The road went up hill and down dale, and on either hand were clusters of gigantic trees, gnarled and leafless branches lifted toward the stars, and lights scattered among the monstrous buttresses of their roots and dotting their trunks.
Our sleigh turned onto a neatly plowed lane and entered one of the groves, pulling up before a particularly impressive tree. Nestled within the shelter of its roots was the entrance to a typical Poltroyan abode, an antechamber built of mortared stone. The margins of its sloping roof were hung with festoons of fairy lights—another adopted human novelty. The rest of the home was carved out of the living tree, and small lighted windows were visible higher on the massive bole.
Lynelle pulled up and we all got out. The patient robots appeared to snuffle and twitch their furry ears as they settled down to wait indefinitely. Realistic breath-clouds came from their nostrils.
Either Marc or Lynelle must have sent out a farspoken announcement of our arrival, for the front door of the tree-house was abruptly flung open and a diminutive lilac-skinned male Poltroyan dressed in jeweled robes bounded out to meet us.
“You’re here! You’re here! A thousand welcomes to my hearth, honored guests!”
The exotic ran up to me, seized both my hands, and forced me into an impromptu ring-around-the-rosy there in the snow. “Rogi, Rogi, mon vieux! Surely you remember me? Fritiso-Prontinalin!”
“Batège!” I cried. “It’s old Fred!”
Of course I knew him. The ever-perplexing Lylmik had forced the poor guy to rescue me and Teresa Kendall and newborn Jack the Bodiless from the snowbound fastness of British Columbia. Fred was a longtime academic colleague of Denis, a former Visiting Fellow in Psychogeomorphology at Dartmouth. He and his wife Minnie had become dear friends of our family during their tenure at the college, but I had not seen them since they returned to their own planet four years earlier, at the time that they were both named magnates.
Marc introduced Alex, Pete, Boom-Boom, and Shig, and the genial Poltroyan urged all of them to call him by his Earthling nickname. Then he led us inside, apologizing for Minnie’s absence; one of her Concilium committees was sitting. We crowded into the little stone foyer, stamping the snow off our feet, then followed Fred up a very long, steep, and narrow (for bulky humans) stairway into the main part of his tree-home.
Once again there were exclamations of awe and amazement. Alex Manion was right: the fantastic tube station didn’t have a patch on Fred’s parlor when it came to eye-popping Byzantine splendor, but for all that the place was comfortably untidy, strewn with book-plaques, discarded mukluks, outdated news printouts, and other homey clutter.
We all made admiring comments, but our little host hurried us up another stairway to our individual guest rooms on the upper level, each one small but tricked out fit to titillate Louis Quatorze. Our luggage had already arrived. Fred invited us to freshen up and come down to the parlor in an hour or so for drinks and a simple fondue supper.
Then he turned to Marc. “Are you sure I can’t tempt you to move in, too? Minnie and I have oodles of room and we both adore house parties. The enclave’s Wintergarden is just across the grove from our place and it has facilities for every kind of cold-weather sport imaginable.”
“Do it!” I enthused. “You’ve been overworking yourself for months.”
But Marc shook his head. “It’s kind of you, Fred. But I’ve got to finish preparing a critical piece of CE equipment for demonstration before the Science Directorate. And there are still details connected with my new magnateship that I need to sort out. I certainly will drop by for skiing and mind-mashing with this gang of loafers as often as I can. Thanks again for taking them in.”
“The warmth of my abode is always yours to share,” Fred replied rather formally. Marc had never been quite as matey with him as Denis and Lucille and the other children and I.
“I’ll have to be leaving now,” Marc said. “But I want everyone to join me for dinner at twenty hours tomorrow at Les Trois Marches in Versailles Enclave. Lynelle will be there and I hope Minnie will be able to come, too.”
Fred went to see him and the Rogers woman off and I retired to my room, where there was a compact teleview with a data terminal. I did a bit of fast research and found out that Citizen Lynelle Rogers was a very high-ranking staffer of Dirigent-Designate Patricia Castellane of Okanagon. She was only twenty-three years old, and had lived on the cosmop world all her life. Her educational background was outstanding (political science, economics) and all of her metafaculties were grandmasterclass. She had never been married.
Well well well!
But I still felt vaguely uneasy.
Later, space-lagged and ready to relax, we sat in the parlor eating, drinking, and schmoozing while Fred attended to some domestic matters. The buffet our host had laid on was simple but delicious, and outside a preprogrammed snowfall was adding four cents of crispy new powder to the winter wonderland.
Boom-Boom and Shig lounged like Roman emperors on gilt-wood divans upholstered with blue sea silk, snacking desultorily from a low table with golden legs and a top of priceless lapis lazuli that was now splattered with melted cheese and strewn with dirty dishes. The lads were still munching ambrosial Gi candies and slices of some exotic melon that tasted like perfumed custard. The big fondue pot was almost empty, as were the baskets of mauve Poltroyan bread and the big dish of Earth-style crudités.
Alex Manion had finished eating. Perched on a carved stool, he was doing a rather good job of hammering “The Flowers That Bloom in the Spring” on an exotic dulcimer inset with what might have been emeralds. Pete Dalembert, elected bartender, was making a round of killer shooters from the collection of outlandish liqueurs and flavored brandies on Fred’s sideboard. Poltroyans are crazy about syrupy booze.
I lay on the fish-fur rug at the far side of the room, replete, sipping a B&B and studying a big wall-hung Sony Tri-D masquerading as a reproduction of Fra Angelico’s Madonna and Child with Saints. The faces of the holy folk and angels had been modified to give them lilac complexions and ruby eyes, and their uncovered heads were bald and painted with delicate designs in the best Poltroyan fashion. It was sensitively done and the Fra would have approved.
After a while Fred came in, poured himself a stein of eau de vie de Danzig, and joined me on the floor. “Minnie won’t be back tonight.” He sighed and gazed moodily at the flakes of gold leaf floating in the clear, oily liqueur. “All of the Ethics and Philosophy Directorates are stuck in extraordinary session. Debating the morality of creativity enhancement.”
I h’mphed. “Marc’s E15 project?”
“Exactly.”
“Ti-Jean wanted to help plead his brother’s cause but Marc wouldn’t hear of it. How are things looking?”
Fred shrugged. “Poltroy is for it, the Simbiari are violently opposed, and the Gi and Krondaku lean toward conditional approval. Your Human Polity is split down the middle. A lot of humans seem to be more dubious about Marc himself than about his project. There are rumors that Paul Remillard prevailed upon the Lylmik not to nominate Marc to the Concilium two years ago when they were inclined to do so.”
“Afraid he might join the Rebel faction, I suppose.” Or was it just envy? I told Fred: “Marc’s mental assay is cosmic. He’s about the best we’ve got. But Paul’s wrong if he thinks Marc would side with the Rebels. He’s above politics. All he’s interested in is that CE project of his.”
> Fred took a hefty gulp of goldwasser and I tried not to cringe. “Minnie says that if Marc’s demonstration is a success and his brain shows no damage from the device, his research will probably be granted restricted approval. Great benefits could accrue.”
“So they say.” For a time we were silent. Alex Manion was softly singing “Poor Wand’ring One” from The Pirates of Penzance, accompanying himself on the Poltroyan instrument. The others were drinking Pete’s appalling shooters and cooking up exploration plans for the morrow.
“What are your feelings about Marc?” Fred inquired softly. “He was a remarkable person even when I knew him as an adolescent. Imagine! Defying the Galactic Magistratum in order to save his mother and unborn brother …”
Behind my own mental barricade, I reflected that Fred didn’t know the half of it! I confessed: “There were times, when Marc was very young, when I wondered whether he was really human. He was more withdrawn then—colder—and it was obvious that he was awesomely intelligent in addition to having those stupendous metapsychic powers. Neither his mother nor his father took the time to understand him. Teresa was sweet but neurotic, the lark who’d hatched an eagle egg, if you catch my analogy. And you know what Paul is like—passionate, driven, putting humanity’s success in the Milieu above every other consideration. The sexual games Paul plays have led Marc to despise him. He underestimates the tremendous things Paul has accomplished and his importance to the Human Polity.”
“Perhaps now that Marc is to become a magnate himself, seeing his father at work, he’ll be more forbearing.”
“If only the young hardass wasn’t so judgmental and self-righteous! But he thinks he’s got all the answers—and to hell with people who make mistakes or don’t meet his standards of perfection. I tried to do what I could with him. When he was a kid I let him hang around my bookshop, encouraged him to talk about himself, tried to be his friend. But he doesn’t confide in me the way he used to. I think his closest confidant now is his little brother Jack! And that’s weird.”
Fred pursed his plum-colored lips, thinking. “Perhaps not. Both Minnie and I got to know the little boy very well. In spite of his great mindpowers and his ghastly mutation, Jack is a warm, loving, very human person. Perhaps his older brother unconsciously seeks to emulate him. To discover Jack’s successful adaptation to—to super-humanity and apply it to himself.”
“Maybe,” I conceded. Then I brought up the thing that had been eating away at me ever since I arrived in Orb. “Fred—is there anything going on between Marc and Lynelle Rogers?”
His ruby eyes widened. “What an interesting notion! But I see that the idea troubles you—”
I explained Marc’s aversion to sexuality, and the warmblooded little Poltroyan was all sympathy. “I see. You think a love affair would help Marc’s psychomaturation.”
“You bet your precious purple ballocks I do! But something about Rogers gives me the willies. How did you get to know her? What do you know about her background?”
“Minnie and I went to your cosmopolitan world, Okanagon, where I was to check out a stalled research project conducted by some of my students. It was—let me see—about five of your Earth months ago. The old Planetary Dirigent had died and the newly nominated Dirigent-Designate was to be fêted at a grand garden party. We were invited, and there we met Citizen Rogers, who was the new Dirigent’s special assistant. Lynelle was particularly kind to us when an inebriated human guest made—uh—xenophobic remarks to Minnie. Coerced the boor right out the gate and smoothed things over nicely. We made arrangements to meet her again when we all came to Orb for the Concilium session. Evidently Lynelle made Marc’s acquaintance here and learned of his embarrassment of hospitality, and when we had her to dinner she asked for our help. Our friendship with the Remillard family is rather well known in operant circles. Of course we were delighted to oblige. Marc should have thought of asking us himself.”
“Not him,” I muttered. “But you don’t know anything else about this woman? Or her relation to Marc?”
“I’m sorry, no. I really think,” he added with a twinkle, “that it would be best if you asked Marc himself about that.”
I did, the very next day at the dinner party. But he only smiled his charming asymmetrical smile and told me again to mind my own damn business.
11
SECTOR 15: STAR 15-000-001 [TELONIS] PLANET 1 [CONCILIUM ORB]
GALACTIC YEAR: LA PRIME 1-382-692 [17 MARCH 2063]
THE POLTROYANS HAD TERRAFORMED NEARLY 150 HECTARES OF their enclave to accommodate the Saint Patrick’s Day party, creating a surreal but charming Irish never-never land. Gnarled oaks, lush rolling meadows, standing stones, Celtic crosses, and strategically placed artificial crags evoked a fantasy landscape of Eire. An evening sky with an improbable luminous rainbow overarched a small ruined castle on a “distant” knoll. Flowers clambered over stone walls and bloomed in the dooryards of thatched white cottages that stood beside a dirt track heading toward the “Irish village” where the festivities would take place.
Luc and Jon Remillard and their grandparents, disembarking at the tube station with scores of other humans and exotic guests, were greeted by a giggling mob of Titian-wigged Poltroyan females garbed in their quaint conception of eighteenth-century Irish peasant dress: dark brocade skirts fluffed out with lots of petticoats, blouses of emerald silk georgette, gold-tissue aprons, and glistening shawls of fine wool embroidered with Celtic motifs in precious metal thread. The pretty little lilac-skinned colleens pressed shamrock boutonnières, blackthorn walking sticks with green ribbons, and buttons that said KISS ME, I’M IRISH upon the arrivals before guiding them to a fleet of gilded jaunting cars, open vehicles with twin benches facing toward either side, bedizened with green pompons and bunches of daffodils. The drivers were diminutive Poltroyan males in green lamé leprechaun costumes who grinned and shouted welcoming phrases in what was arguably the Irish language.
Jack and Luc took the left seat in a car and Denis and Lucille took the right, whereupon their genial gnomish reinsman cracked his whip and a clockwork Connemara pony set off at a smart trot. Music swelled on the breeze, mingling with the scent of peat smoke, wild roses, and very inviting food.
“Faith and begorrah, but we’ve got a fine night of merrymaking ready for yez!” the Poltroyal driver caroled. “And are any here true sons or daughters of the Auld Sod?”
Lucille Cartier flinched minutely at the excruciating brogue, but neither her composure nor her mind-screen wavered. “None of us has Irish blood, but I’m sure we’ll enjoy your party all the same. It will be a very pleasant way to wind up our visit to this Concilium session. We’re most grateful to the Amalgam of Poltroy for its thoughtfulness.”
“Saints be praised! And ye know how we Purple Pipsqueaks love a good frolic! Ye’ll have a grand time, I’m sure, if music and dancing and eating and drinking appeal to yez. We’ve got pipers and drummers and harpists and tin-whistle tootlers, and a feast of corned beef and cabbage and seventeen different kinds of praties and bedad if I know how much more yummy Irish food, and enough green beer and other tipple to jollify every soul in Orb … saving the wee gossoons, o’ course. They get a special bun-fight with sweet cider and green milk shakes and a chance to hunt for a genu-wine pot o’ gold.”
“Great!” said Jack.
“And the Dirigent of Hibernia, the glorious Irish ethnic planet, is our guest of honor and grand marshal of the parade,” the driver continued. “I suppose you know the lovely gentleman: Rory Muldowney is his name.”
“Oh-oh,” murmured Luc.
Denis was calm. “We’re acquainted with him.”
Just then three larger carts full of Gi went clattering by at a full gallop, the feathered passengers waving stone jugs in the air while they warbled “Cruiscìn Làn” in several different keys. It was obvious that they had brought their own supply of poteen. Under cover of the hullabaloo, Jack queried his older brother on the intimate telepathic mode.
Whatwhat a
bout the IrishDirigent? Why you leak anxietyvibes Luco?
Didn’t you know? Muldowney was LauraTremblay’s husband and SHE was Papa’s paramour for years&years while pooroldRory grinned&bore it.
Oh …
She finally got tired of asking Papa to marry her and used her own creativity to commit suicide afewyearsago in a totally-bizarrissimo way. [Image.]
Batège! That must have hurt. Is DirigentMuldowney angry with FamilyRemillard because of—of what happened?
He never said WordOne. It seems he kept on loving Laura allthetime she was unfaithful and they had 4kids and even when she died that way after having the last baby Rory never blamed Papa it was passed off as postpartumdepression … but that’s enoughofthat morbidstuff. Just look what we’re getting into!
“Whoa, ye spalpeen!” cried the Poltroyan leprechaun, hauling back on the reins. The robot pony reared and stamped and rolled its eyes as it halted in the midst of a crush of dozens of other golden cars and laughing guests. “Lady and gents, we’re here! A hundred thousand welcomes to the Poltroyan Saint Patrick’s Day gala, and please to step down lively now so I can fetch the next batch of revelers.”
They had arrived at what appeared to be a village green at eventide, surrounded by clusters of brightly lit dwellings and inviting taverns with their doors wide open. Tricolor green, white, and orange flags and emerald banners bearing the harp of Tara flapped from garland-wound standards. Pseudoflame torches and lanterns illuminated the crowded streets and party grounds. A floodlit statue of the patron saint of Ireland looked down benevolently from a central plinth on the green, where strolling groups of mauve-complected little musicians in outlandish parodies of traditional Irish clothing fiddled and piped and harped and sang airs in clear falsetto voices. Back among the trees, which were festooned with green and white lights, were three big open areas of turf dedicated to archaic, nineteenth-century, and contemporary dancing, each with a Poltroyan band in appropriate garb. More Poltroyans dressed as servers raced to and from the cottages, bearing platters and bowls of food to a huge dining pavilion. Just beyond the village was a lighted hurling ground with a boisterous football game in progress, and a picturesque little racecourse where spectators cheered the efforts of bionic steeds.