Lovely planet, he thought bitterly. But never as lovely as Malice. Malice—I should have been warned by your name. But I blinded myself to everything but your beauty; I deafened myself to my father’s words. I obsessed myself with a childhood longing. And when I found you…
He surveyed the gardens. Never strong on the merits of cultivation, aside from the special art of hvee, Aton felt he was off to a poor start. It did not matter; even the best of starts would have had little effect on his destructive passion for the minionette.
Minionette. When I found you at last, after the games with the Captain, with the Xests… no wonder those amiable aliens were confused. They saw that you were the minionette, that strange offshoot of man, no imitation, while I tried to fix my ignorance on them. And they showed me what they could, and I took you away, to a hidden spotel, and there divined the monstrous evil of your nature.
Left to his own devices at this resort, he discovered that life did go on. Idly he explored the gardens, solving the simple riddle of the shrubbery, and turning finally to the bright cottage. The descending sun was a raised outline on the floating cloudlets, too round to be natural. The smell of cooking was in the air.
Then, broken, I listened to you, Aurelius. But you told me nothing, only sent me here to Idyllia, to rest, to forget. To forget Malice.
Entering the cabin at last, Aton found ancient-type botanic prints along the hall, a floor of pseudopine, and antique turn-type knobs on hinged doors. Such a house must Wordsworth keep! he thought. Cheerful fire blazing in the main-room hearth; shadows from ornamental andirons flickering against the rough stone segment of the floor. Wholesome noises from what he took to be the kitchen. Another person was in the house.
He stepped through the arch. Arch? This was not, then, intended to be any historic replica. And he saw her: petite, blonde, efficient. “What are you doing here?” he said. What do you care, Aton?
She turned, sparkling. “I belong.”
“But they told me this was my house,” he said querulously.
“Yes.” She came to him and held up her left wrist, showing the silver band on it. “It is the custom of Idyllia to provide slaves for the service of its patrons. For the duration of your stay I belong to you, and in the name of the planet, I welcome you.” She made a little curtsy.
Aton was not convinced. “Something was mentioned. But I thought it was to be a caretaker. A—a manservant.”
“They are reserved for our female patrons.”
“Oh.” Too blatant, Idyllia.
She took his arm and guided him back to the fireplace with that gentle command that is the prerogative of the slave, and settled him for the afternoon meal. Aton accepted the situation with equivocal pleasure. No woman had ever taken care of him in quite this way before, and his attitude was ambiguous before becoming positive. It was, after all, a worthwhile adjustment to make.
“What would one call a female slave?” he inquired.
“By her name,” she said pertly. “Coquina.”
Aton researched in the sturdy intellectual files implanted by his childhood tutor. “The coral building stone? Is that your theme—the hardness and sharpness of—?”
“On Earth,” she said, “there once were tiny clams with shells so colorful that they became collectors’ items. They were called—”
“I see. And what would the pretty shell recommend for a troubled heart tonight?” he said. And he thought, She is trying to oblige—why fence with her, Aton?
“There is a country dance this evening,” she said, apparently missing the implication in his question. “If it pleases you—”
“Nothing pleases me, Coquina.” But he smiled.
The dance was colorful. It happened in a warm brown barn, the smell of hay in the corners, the nests of swallows in the rafters. Tissue banners festooned the hewn beams; soft cider flowed from the central press. People wandered in and out, shepherded by their knowledgeable slaves, smiling desperately. Too often, Aton felt, the striving inner torment shone through the glad masks.
But he drank of the cider and found it potent. It was not soft, despite the evident freshness; it was turning, pungent—and perhaps the natural fermentation had been artfully augmented. Or the apple-stock itself had been modified. He conjured a picture of tiny trees birthing megalocarpous fruit, each huge apple bearing the legend “80 Proof.” His mind became uncommonly clear and he saw that there was laughter even in sadness.
“Sets in order!” Two whiskered stereotypes struck up the music, one playing fiddle, the other a magnificent three-deckered accordion. The room was filled with merriment. Couples formed from the fringe melee and eddied toward the main floor and formed into crude squares. Women flounced their full-circle skirts and took the proud elbows of solemn gentlemen.
Aton spoke aside to Coquina. “How may one obtain a partner for this affair?” The music ascended as busy fingers leaped over white and black accordion keys, strutted against the chord panel, pumped the bellows harder.
“One crosses the room toward one of the seated ladies, bows gallantly, requests the pleasure of her company for the dance.”
“How does one make a choice?” he asked, gesturing at the array. White petticoats fluttered above crossed thighs, making interesting shadows.
Coquina arched an eyebrow. “Unaccustomed as I am to judging the tastes of male clientele… however, I understand that the third damsel from the right is attractive to certain types, and is an excellent dancer—”
Aton studied the woman as she chatted gaily with a neighbor and leaned to tap one elevated slipper and laugh at some private joke. Her décolletage showed fine cleavage and her feet were small. Her hair was long and loose.
“No!” he said, more forcefully than he meant. “Red hair is out.”
Coquina obligingly pointed out an alternate. This time the hair was brown and not too long. She was standing to the side with a cup of cider in her hand, bouncing gently to the music. At the end of the refrain she came down on both heels firmly, breasts and buttocks jumping in sudden sex appeal.
“No—she has green eyes.” It was a bleak reminder; sorrow struck him heavily, his emotion amplified by the liquor.
Coquina looked at him, uncertain whether he were serious. Her eyes were blue. “Come,” he said, unable to explain his mood. “I prefer my slave.”
And so they danced, the girl light on her feet and easy to hold, and for a time the weight upon his mind lightened, retreated half a step. They danced, they swung, they spun, her skirts rising alluringly; but the weight danced with them. The living lines parted and re-formed; men marched to meet their partners in the center, bowed, retreated, marched again, and swung into shuffle-step and grand right-and-left. Right hand to right hand, left to left, meeting each girl with music and a flair of the hip and passing her on to the rear, smiling. Oh, brightening glance! What a miracle such movement makes of the routine figure! What capricious delight, sharpened by irony—for these are smiles and motions only, in the absence of love, intriguing but empty.
Malice, oh Malice, oh Malice, why did you betray me?
It was midnight at the cottage when Aton, subdued, prepared to retire. The vision had grown, and now it pounded in the shell of his head, tearing his mind apart, dominant in his fatigue. It was the face and form of Malice, smiling, devastating, at once more lovely and more terrible than any spectral phantasm. The flame rippled through her hair, and he wanted her.