That was his father, bright-eyed and flushed, the way he got when he talked about 20th-century newspaper comics. Tons of them, he had, all laminated in sheets of clear plastic and filed away, each in its wall slot, in the Comics Room; he had been collecting them since he was a boy. He saw Dick, nodded absently, and went on talking. " ... for ironic commentary, the real heart of that age, you have to study The Bungles. Incidentally, I don't suppose you know that Tuthill simply quit drawing the strip one day, when he felt tired of it. It ended there and then; no other artist took it over. Remarkable, when you remember how frantic everyone was for money ... "
Dick's father, the fourth Man of Buckhill, was slender and not tall, fine-featured, rather delicately made, with a fair complexion. He was strong and agile, however, and his lack of commanding height never seemed to enter his mind. He ruled Buckhill firmly and efficiently; there was no better-run estate in the East.
George Jones of Twin Lakes, the Man's younger brother, seemed to have come from another stock altogether. He was tall and heavy-boned, with a brutish jaw and brow. He had grown fatter in the last few years, and now had an imposing stomach under the green brocade of his vest. Seeing the two brothers together, at first glance you would have thought George the older. His features had a faintly MacDonaldian heaviness, which he emphasized by combing his coarse hair, already sprinkled with an iron gray, into a forelock.
"Be reasonable, Fred," he was saying as Dick came up. "You're rated at five hundred able bucks counting the guard, and I know for a fact you're at least a hundred over; It's disgraceful -- you ought to have been drowning newborns five years ago, to teach 'em a lesson."
Dick's father shook his head decisively. "I would never do that, George. Not even to a slave."
"Well, then, you'd better start lopping their trigger fingers, then, that's all there is of it. I'm telling you for your own benefit, Fred, you're too soft with 'em. You may think you can just go on like this forever, but sooner or later the Boss is going to send an inspector around, and then you'll be in the s-o-u-p, soup."
Dick moved on restlessly. He had heard it all a hundred times before, and had expected to hear it all a hundred times again. A month or so ago, guest days, except for a few pleasurable aspects, had been a pain in the scut. Now he found himself listening and watching with an irritable hunger; it gave him no enjoyment, but he couldn't take his attention away.
There was a familiar shape, little Echols of Scaroon with his big stomach wrapped in a scarlet cummerbund, cigar in one hand and champagne glass in the other. He was not an esthetic sight by any means, but he turned up at every party in the district; and it struck Dick with a curious pang that he was not going to see that cummerbund any more -- not for four years, perhaps not for ever.
Another figure moved toward him through the crowd: one that he recognized without pleasure. It was his cousin Cashel, Uncle George's only son. Cashel, two years older than Dick, was a louring, bullet-headed youth with dusty-black hair. He and Dick had fought in childhood as a matter of course each time the families met. No friendship had come out of the fighting, as might have happened. As they had grown older they'd learned to tolerate each other, but their mutual dislike was ingrained. Dick thought Cashel sullen and malicious, as well as ugly. He was aware that Cashel deeply resented being the eldest son of a cadet line; he coveted Buckhill, for all the wrong reasons.
But as the heir, Dick shared the duties of a host. "Hello, Cash," he said, putting out his hand. "Good you could come, and so on." They shook hands stiffly, and let go with enthusiasm: "Uh, Can I get you anything?" Dick asked. "Washroom's in the alcove there, if you want to go."
"No thanks, I've been," Cashel said, too promptly. His expression showed, an instant later, that he wished he had taken the excuse to leave. "I'm a little thirsty," he added hopefully.
Shackled by courtesy, Dick could only say, "Champagne? Tokay? Ale?" and put out an arm to snag a passing waiter, "Claret?" he went on, as Cashel hesitated. "Port? Riesling?"
"No Riesling, misser," said the waiter, shuffling the bottles on his cart.
"Riesling," Cashel said decisively. "Yes, I guess Riesling. Well, I suppose there's another waiter around here somewhere -- " He started to move away.
The phrasing was unfortunate; Dick bristled. "I guess there are one or two," he said emphatically. "Just wait a minute, won't you?" He glared at Cashel briefly, then used the same expression on the unhappy waiter, who winced, bobbed his head, and trundled rapidly away into the crowd.
Dick and Cashel stared uncomfortably over each other's head until he came back. With him was a second waiter, pushing a similar cart. The second waiter uncorked a bottle of straw-colored wine and hastily poured two glasses, handing one to Cashel, one to Dick.
"Riesling," said Dick coldly.
Cashel accepted his. "Just what I was wanting," he said with false heartiness. He sipped at it. "This isn't bad, really."
"Only Rudesheimer," said Dick, indifferently. "I might be able to find you some of the Mohawk '75, if you want."
"No, no. This is fine."
They stared at each other blankly for a moment, holding the glasses. It was dawning on both of them that they had got themselves into a position from which neither could gracefully retreat. Cashel made a gesture as if to gulp down his wine, but checked it, to Dick's relief: that would only have meant that as host, Dick would have had to force another glass on him, and as guest, Cashel would have had to drink it.
"Oh, hell," said Dick finally. "Look, Cashel, we both have ... our private opinion of each other, but that doesn't mean we can't stand each other for half an hour, does it? Come on, let's listen to some music."
This was a major concession: he meant Dixieland, a form of noise to which Cashel was addicted, but which made Dick as restless as a turpentined hound. Cashel brightened perceptibly. "Fair enough!"
They turned toward the inner rooms. On the way, Dick dropped his barely-tasted wineglass into the nearest glory hole, and Cashel followed suit.
The mass of people was beginning to break up and scatter. Everywhere, as they walked deeper into the house, they found small groups: some looking over the collections and trophies, some watching TV or movies, or sitting down to card tables; some eating and drinking, some chalking pool cues, leafing through books, pinching serving girls; some already drunk and singing; some talking in clusters, some amiably wandering.
Dick found the musicians he was looking for in one of the smaller lounges; they were playing 20th-century ballads to half a dozen men and women, none of them listening.
Dick caught the leader's eye. He was a grizzled oldster named Bucky Williams; like all the musicians, he had been born on the estate and trained by his predecessor. Some people considered this kind of thing a waste of time -- it was a lot simpler to make a prote of whatever artist you had, and dupe another of him when the first wore out -- but Dick's father had a prejudice against duping slobs.
"Dixielan'?" said Bucky. "Yes, sir." He exchanged glances with the other four. The reed men poised their lips, the piano player and the drummer unrolled an aimless little rhythm, and then, as far as Dick was concerned, the five of them began to emit independent cacophonies. There was an old-fashioned tune mixed in somewhere, but each time one of the players stumbled across it, the others seemed to feel they could safely leave it alone. Dick sat and suffered through the first paroxysm, and the second, and the third.
He was feeling thoroughly purged, but sticking grimly to it, when the most welcome of all sounds overrode the combo's music. "The small arms competition is about to begin," said the room's built-in loudspeaker. "Contestants assemble at the range, if you please. The first event will be rifle, open, free style, fifty and one hundred yards."