“Quite right, my dear!” Lady Elaine set forth toward the dining room with the gleam of battle in her eye, though it was somewhat tarnished with incredulity. “Flirting? With a robot?”
“I know all men are gadget lovers, my dear, but your father was being a bit extreme.”
“We can only conjecture as to what he was seeing.” Rupert lifted his snifter and took a rather large sip of brandy. “It can’t have been a robot.”
“He didn’t do any harm, though?” Robin asked.
“No, of course not—the robot was of age, after all.”
Rupert squeezed his eyes shut and pressed a hand to his forehead. “No, what am I saying? Of course he couldn’t do any harm—the robot couldn’t understand his references, since it was programmed only for housework; so it couldn’t say ‘yes’—and Pater is far too much the gentleman to force his attentions.” His eyes snapped open. “Egad! Is it catching?”
“No, only confusing,” Robin assured him. “Let’s go back to your first question: ‘What was he seeing?’ “
“Yes. Yes, that was it.” Rupert leaned back with a grateful sigh. “Elaine arrived while he was trying to tickle its central column. She managed to attract his attention, and took him away to an early tea—a very early tea.”
“Quite so; it can’t have been past 1500.” Robin had to fight to hide his smile. “I take it he wasn’t upset by Elaine’s presence?”
“Not particularly, though she tells me he did look up with a guilty start.”
“I should think so, after all the lectures he gave us on behavior becoming a gentleman.”
Rupert turned to him with a thoughtful frown. “Perhaps that’s it—perhaps we need only remonstrate with him in terms of ‘behavior befitting his station.’ “
“Or perhaps,” Robin said, with surprising firmness, “we should invite Dr. Reves to dinner.”
In the rooftops, Fess was directing a squadron of robots in rather specialized shapes. To the uninformed, they would have looked like steel-shelled snails with multiple antennae—though those antennae were moving about like tentacles, lifting and readying a long hollow tube several inches in diameter. Fess’s directions, of course, were millisecond bursts of radio commands, but if they had been translated into English, they might have sounded something like this: “Unit D-4, lift the mouth of the tube three-tenths of a degree. Unit J-1, couple the tube to the boiler… Unit C-2, open the valve… D-4, move the tube to the left… now the right… left again.” A flurry of fine white flakes shot out of the mouth of the tube, arching ten feet across the roof, then falling to the plasticrete tiles, caught and held by the force field. Back and forth the snow-cannon moved, laying a coat of fine white powder over the turrets.
Dr. Dan Reves was perhaps better known as Lord Hypoc—his arms were a syringe argent on a field gules—and was certainly so known during dinner that night, at least by Count Rory. “But your father was a lord of many smiths, milord,” he said. “Medicine seems an odd choice, for one of your station.”
“Medicine should be the concern of anyone of any rank or station, if he has the aptitude for learning it and the temperament for practicing it, milord.” Dr. Reves smiled, but his eyes were grave. “The well-being of other folk is too vital a concern to neglect, for any reason.”
The gleam of contest came into Count Rory’s eye. “Do you contend, Lord Hypoc, that physic is of such great import that a man who might be gifted in some other profession should turn aside from it to invest his time in healing?”
“Certainly not,” Dr. Reves said. “I will cheerfully own that any man of good conscience, who has the gifts of governance, should practice them for the good of his fellow creatures. Unfortunately, the contrary case seems to obtain.”
“And those who go into politics,” Robin mused, “seek to obtain anything they can, by any means.”
“Ah, but the more reason why those of good conscience should involve themselves,” Dr. Reves countered.
“The King is poorly served indeed.” Count Rory blithely ignored the fact that the Dictator of Terra could hardly be called a king. “And those who turn to his service seem to feel that morality is but a matter of taste.”
“And we all know how vastly tastes can vary,” Dr. Reves said with a smile. “For example, my lord, I would say that the gown Lady Rose is wearing this evening is enchanting.”
“I would certainly agree, Lord Hypoc.” Rory tried to alleviate Rose’s embarrassment with a sly wink, which only made her redden more. “Her bliaut is the delightful shade of her namesake the rose, with a kirtle of black over all.”
Rupert couldn’t help glancing at his sister-in-law, just to make sure she indeed was not wearing anything black—which she wasn’t. Robin, of course, knew quite well—he studied his wife’s figure far more than was quite proper for a married man—so he only gazed with polite interest at Dr. Dan and his father.
“An unusual term for a gown,” Dr. Reves murmured. He turned back to Count Rory. “Why do you say ‘bliaut,’ my lord?”
Rupert wondered if, under the dress, Rose really was wearing a black girdle.
Robin knew.
Rory spread his hands. “Why, my lord, simply because it is a bliaut.”
Rupert also wondered how Count Rory knew.
Well, as it happened, since it was a formal dinner, Lady Rose was wearing a floor-length gown, and the skirt was quite full—but there its resemblance to a bliaut ended. The top was molded to her contours so tightly that it might have been attributable to species variation, and her skirt rustled with crinolines.
“Fascinating,” Reves murmured, aware that he had embarrassed Rose and trying to take her off the spot. “Why do not all women wear such graceful garments as bliauts?”
Rory kept it down to a polite chuckle. “Why, Lord Hypoc, because not all are of her station.”
Rupert glanced nervously at Robin, but Dr. Reves murmured, “Indeed.”
“A peasant may only wear blouse, bodice, and skirt.” Rory frowned. “Has it been so long since you have seen the country folk that you have forgotten, Lord Hypoc?”
“There are some disadvantages for we who dwell in cities.” Dr. Reves was referring to Ceres. “But there are compensations. For example, the decoration of this dining hall is scarcely such as would occur to rural people. I find it magnificent.”
“It is, is it not?” Count Rory gazed fondly about him. “The banners of battles won adorn the grimness of the stone so gaily—and the shields of my ancestors lend great color and figure to the somberness of the timber.”
His sons and daughters-in-law stilled, exchanging glances out of the corners of their eyes. The walls were, of course, plastered and papered—ivory edged with azure—and the only timber in sight was the wainscoting.
“I must apologize for the drafts, though.” Rory smiled with embarrassment. “The screens passage is all very well, but I believe I must have a genuine door hung to close it; the tapestry alone does not suffice.”
“I assure you, I feel quite warm,” Dr. Reves answered.
“Only because you are near the hearth, milord. The servants, I fear, are chill, since they are farther from the blaze.”
There was no fire in the room, of course. There wasn’t even a fireplace, and certainly not a screens passage—and who ever heard of drafts blowing in from outdoors, on an asteroid?