“ ‘Course there was, old boy—the ball next week. Don’t you remember?”
“I can’t very well,” Magnus said slowly, “since I haven’t been told. What ball?”
“The one Mama is throwing! In your honor, old— I say! There’s Runcible!” And he hurried off to chat with a chum.
Magnus observed the two, noting the degree of loudness, the social distance between them, the lack of physical touching, the intonations, and half-a-dozen other signs of modern customs—but all the time, at the back of his mind, he was wondering why his aunt was putting on an impromptu ball, and why it was in his honor. Were they that desperate for something to do, for some trace of excitement, here?
Yes. Of course they were. How could he ever have wondered?
The haberdasher’s was only a hundred meters away, but it took them half an hour to get there—Robert had to stop every few feet to greet friends, and had to beg off coming to drink with them because he had to squire his bothersome cousin around—and he didn’t hesitate to use those terms, when he must have known full well that Magnus could hear him. If he had thought of it. Magnus was beginning to wonder just how good a guide Robert was to the manners of this people.
He was very much aware of being the outsider, studying the customs as though he were an anthropologist, though for a much more pressing reason than academic research. It was horrifying to realize that this subject group he was observing were supposed to be his own flesh and blood, the people and stock from which he had sprung.
He understood now why his father had left home. In fact, he had gone beyond a mere understanding to a very active sympathy.
The haberdashery comprised a vast assortment of hats and ties and other accessories. They could all have been displayed on screens, of course, and the orders placed by computer—but that would have deprived the young men of a reason to go sauntering down the aisles, where they could be sure of encountering one another and pause for a good, long chat. Magnus resigned himself to a long and boring afternoon, the more so because he was seldom introduced and never included in the conversation—not that he would have wanted to be; it seemed to be exclusively a discussion of the latest styles, sports averages, and local scandals about who was sleeping in whose bed. Magnus was sure it would have been fascinating, if he had only known what they were talking about.
So, when they arrived at home and he had endured high tea and was finally able to seek the comfort of his own rooms, he keyed the wall screen to news, and spent an hour absorbing a quick summary of recent events—local, Terran, and throughout the Terran Sphere. Where he needed additional background to make sense of the summary, he keyed for more information—but still, an hour just wasn’t enough time to give him more than an inkling of what the young men had been talking about.
“The worst of it,” he told Fess, “is that none of it seems to matter much at all.” Since he was alone he could speak aloud. If anyone heard him—well, all the d’Armands were strange.
That will change as you come to understand more of it, Fess assured him. An hour a day will do wonders, Magnus.
“I hope so,” Magnus sighed. “Perhaps you can make sense of Robert’s hostility, Fess. Have I violated some taboo, done something to offend him?” No, Magnus—none.
“Then why his hostility? He almost seems to feel that I am some sort of threat to him.”
Fess gave the burst of white noise that was his equivalent of a sigh and said, Magnus, I fear I must acquaint you with some of the less pleasant aspects of Maximan heredity.
“What?” Magnus frowned. “Adaptation to low gravity? That would effectively trap them on this asteroid. Or perhaps a chromosome for vile tempers?” No, Magnus—inbreeding.
“Oh.” Magnus’s face went blank. “All of the above.”
Quite right, Magnus. Recessive traits are reinforced, and some of them are desirable—but some are not. Over the centuries, some of the more unpleasant traits have become widespread—such as low intelligence and emotional instability.
“So.” Magnus thought that one over. “A surprising number of my dear relatives will be idiots or madmen.”
Yes, Magnus, though in many cases, they will be neither, just … a little slow, or rather unpleasant. “Which accounts for Robert.” Magnus nodded. “Nothing wrong with him but a mild case of paranoia. And what, may I ask, is the matter with Pelisse?”
Nothing that I have detected. “Yet? ”
Yet. Of course.
That also accounted for Magnus’s uncle, and his delusion. And it gave Magnus an inkling as to why the Count’s son had elected to stay on Terra. In any event, the heir was not to be aired, and showed absolutely no interest in inheriting the family estates.
Magnus learned these details the next day, as he was escorting Pelisse through the mall. Between lengthy stops to chat with her friends, she managed to answer a question or two about the family.
“It is difficult to believe that Uncle Roger has no interest in the inheritance.” Actually, Magnus didn’t find it hard to believe at all.
“I know—but he doesn’t,” Pelisse said, “though it’s a good guess that he’ll expect a decent share of the income.”
“Of course.” Magnus smiled, not pleasantly. “All the money but none of the responsibility or inconvenience, eh? He won’t bring it off, will he?”
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll receive a generous settlement—but even if he didn’t, I don’t think that would persuade my dear uncle to come back.” Pelisse seemed to have grown rather nervous. She stopped abruptly, facing into a store-screen. “Oh, what a lovely gown! Come, Magnus, I must try it on!”
Magnus glanced up at the gown and wondered what could have taken her eye about it; it seemed quite ordinary to him. But, all things considered, there were worse things to do with his time than to watch Pelisse try on a tight-fitting gown, so he followed her around behind the screen and into the shop, not entirely reluctantly.
CHAPTER 3
Ian waked slowly, blinking, and sat up, looking about him, puzzled. The room seemed very strange. Then he remembered.
Nothing had changed inside the stone egg; the light was still the same. He frowned, rubbing a hand across his mouth. How could he tell what time of the day or night it was? He rose, and went slowly toward the stairway, wondering how he would get out.
There was a clicking sound behind him. He spun about.
The voice said, “Food and drink are served.”
He saw a new plate on the table with clean utensils beside it, and on the plate was a dark, thick slice of meat—a steak, and more of the wonderful bread, and something green, which must have been a vegetable. Beans? And a lump of mealy white stuff, and a tall glass filled with white liquid. He ran to the chair, suddenly aware of his hunger again. He picked up the steak in both hands, bit, and chewed. When he was done, he dropped the bone and scooped the beans into his mouth. They tasted far better than the hard, dry lentils he had always eaten, and the mealy stuff was creamy and smooth in his mouth. The white liquid proved to be cow’s milk—he had drunk of it now and again—and he drank it down in huge gulps.
When he was done, he sat back, sighing. He found a square of white cloth next to the plate and wondered what it was for, then noticed the grease on his hands. Surely the cloth must be for cleaning! He picked it up and wiped off the grease; then, with another happy sigh, he got up from the table, looking about him, and feeling very, very happy.