Night Lamp (13 page)

“She’d put me off my own ship?”

“Yes, indeed, if she thought it correct.”

Jaro had nothing to say in the face of this assertion. Lyssel leaned back against the ship and studied her fingernails. She was becoming bored with Jaro. He was nice looking in a sanitary sort of way, but he lacked the flair and hell-for-leather panache which made certain other young men more exciting company. Jaro, she thought unkindly, was limp and timid, just like any other nimp.

Lyssel looked over her shoulder, wondering how her uncle Forby was faring in his attempt to influence Gilfong Rute. Not well, to judge by his sagging jowls.

Jaro asked, “What are they discussing?”

“Oh—just business,” said Lyssel airily. “Some sort of big construction development. If all goes well, and Mr. Rute invests, our problems are over. I’m supposed to help out by exerting my sweet blue-eyed innocence.”

Forby Mildoon rolled up the map; the two men entered the ship, with Lyssel following. At the entry she looked back with an expression of unreadable import, then disappeared within. Jaro shrugged and went his way.

Three days later both Hilyer and Althea were promoted to full professorships, with substantial increments of stipend. Their status was also augmented, to such an extent that they were elected into the Altroverts: an unconventional non-strivers club of intelligentsia, non-conformists, nimps in high places and other free-thinkers, and even a few Lemurians.

The Faths pretended disinterest in their new status, but secretly they were delighted by the recognition, which they considered not only well deserved, but also long overdue. They even started to consider entertaining certain of their new associates at Merriehew House. “I haven’t really used my lovely candelabra in ages,” Althea sighed. “But also, Hilyer—please don’t grumble—there’s no denying that the old place needs to be smarted up both inside and out, and now we can afford it, there’s no further reason to put it off. Then when we invite folk, such as Professor Chabath and Dame Intricx over for the evening, we won’t be made to feel like vagabonds.”

“I don’t mind feeling like a vagabond,” said Hilyer, who had a tendency toward frugality. “If anyone cares to fix that interpretation upon my conduct—well, then, let them have at it!”

Althea was not deceived by her husband’s brave words. “Come now, Hilyer, I know that you enjoy dinner parties as much as I do, but you are just too stubborn to admit it.”

Hilyer laughed. “Yes and no. If you want the truth, I’m afraid of spending a great deal of money to no good purpose.”

“I don’t understand what you mean!”

“You remember that rumor twenty years ago, about new suburbs and expansions from town? Well, I heard a whisper of the same sort of talk yesterday and I believe that, sooner or later, it’s bound to happen.”

“But not for a hundred years!” protested Althea. “Thanet has already expanded eastward, over the hills and into Vervil. Why should it suddenly explode in this direction?”

“You may be right,” said Hilyer. “But if you’re wrong, then it’s to our interest to be out and away from the district before the congestion begins; and in this regard I had a casual offer for Merriehew house and grounds this morning.”

“Indeed! Who from?”

“From the same person as before: a real estate type named Forby Mildoon. He mentioned that he controlled several very nice homes in the Catterline district, and that if we could come up with ten thousand sols, along with what he called our old barn of a place, he’d let us have one of the houses. He pointed out that the houses were situated just over the hill from the Institute and hence very convenient.”

Althea drew in her breath. “And what did you say to that?”

“I just laughed at him and told him his price was far too high. He said, very reasonably, that our place could hardly be sold at all in its present condition, but that he might come down perhaps a thousand sols, if we’d agree to certain conditions. I said that still was too high; and finally I badgered him down to sixty-five hundred sols and our property, but I stressed I could make no deal until I conferred with you and Jaro. He wanted to know what Jaro had to say about the case, and I told him that since Jaro expected ultimately to inherit Merriehew, and since he loved the place, his feelings must be respected. I told him that if he wanted to drop Merriehew from the deal, we might consider one of his houses at seventy-six hundred, or even eight thousand, as he had suggested.”

Althea said scornfully, “I wouldn’t want to live in one of those boxy little Catterline cottages under any circumstances; they’re all built one on top the next in tiers! I could become angry at the wretched man for suggesting such a thing! It’s truly an insult, and not so subtle as all that!”

On the following day Hilyer, in his office at the Institute, received a telephone call from Forby Mildoon. Mildoon spoke in jovial tones: “If you recall, we had a conversation as to your possible interest in a Catterline property. By the sheerest coincidence, an off-world client approached me this morning for exploration purposes. He intimated that he might be interested in a rustic property, somewhat out of town, which could be converted into a restaurant of a certain type. I thought at once of Merriehew. Now I don’t want to encourage you with visions of wealth; he is operating on the cheap, and my commission would amount to little, but I have calculated that with your sixty-five hundred sols and Merriehew property, I could fit you into a lovely cottage in the splendid Catterline district, practically next door to the Institute.”

Hilyer said crisply, “I’m afraid you must forget that proposition, Mr. Mildoon. In the first place, my son Jaro won’t hear of it—”

Forby Mildoon’s voice took on a peevish energy: “It seems to me that he should not be allowed to interfere with your comfort and convenience! After all, if I may say so, Merriehew is not a dignified residence for a pair of high-status academicians! It looks more like a resort for hoodlums and vagabonds.”

“My wife is not interested in the Catterline district. She considers it common and vulgar, and asked if your own residence were in the Catterline.”

“No, it is not,” said Mildoon rather haughtily. “I live in Chermond Park Estates.”

“I see. Well, it makes no great difference, since I think that we may safely consider the topic exhausted of all further interest.

Good day to you!”

“Good day, sir,” said Mildoon behind clenched teeth.

Toward the end of the Fall Term the Arcadian Mountebanks were hired to play at the Bumblebosters’ Panics, a festival sponsored by the Isograms, a Squared Circle junior auxiliary. The Panics was a yearly occasion, celebrating the aggregate comporture of the Squared Circle Quadrants. For weeks volunteers and professionals had decorated the Surcy Pavilion to represent a street in the mythical town Poowaddle. False fronts simulated buildings of an unlikely architecture; balconies held lumpy pneumatic buffoons, caparisoned in the traditional Poowaddle costume: tall crooked hats with wide brims supporting burbling baluk birds and brass-footed squeakers; loose pantaloons, enormous shoes with up-curling toes. The merry Poowaddlers, who thronged the promenade, were expected to wear one or another version of the Poowaddle costume. Booths alongside the parade would serve free tankards of “Booble”: a potion brewed from secret recipes but always more or less the same. Three orchestras, including the Arcadian Mountebanks, had been hired to play jigs and gallivants and it was said that if an Isogram failed to enjoy himself at the Bumblebosters’ Panics, he was either dead or somewhere else.

At the time stipulated, the Arcadian Mountebanks took their places in a simulated grotto overlooking the central promenade. Thousands of minute purple and green lights twinkled above them, creating a soft illumination of indescribable color.

The Mountebanks played with their usual zeal, and at the end of their stint descended from the grotto in order to rest and take refreshment. Like the others, Jaro wore the costume of a Gitanque nomad: tight breeches of black velveteen, a grey-brown smock embroidered with rose-pink frogging, a loose cap of dark scarlet, with a long black tassel swinging over his left ear. Turning to survey the promenade, Jaro found himself face to face with a pair of revelers: Lyssel Bynnoc and a young man costumed as a Bumbleboster bravo.

Lyssel stopped short, stared. She wore an ankle-length skirt of soft white web, a black vest and a tiara of green agapanthus leaves, as might circle the brow of a woodland nymph. She cried out in hushed surprise: “Jaro! Is it truly Jaro the spaceman?”

Jaro admitted his identity. Odd! Lyssel, as usual, looked vivacious, fascinating, ready for whatever mischief might be afoot—in short, nothing extraordinary. Still, Jaro could not help but notice an odd discord. At their last meeting, she had not troubled to disguise the utter boredom she felt in his company. Why, then, the glad excitement she now displayed? Caprice? Perhaps.

Lyssel took stock of his costume, then looked up to the stage where Jaro had left his instrument. She asked in wonder, “Are you also a musician?”

“I get paid, if that proves anything.”

“I see a suanola up there. Is that yours? Or do you play something silly, like the twittering toothpicks or the galloping spoons?”

“Just the suanola. The spoons are too much for me.”

“Come, Jaro! You’re far too modest, and it’s not convincing!”

The Bumbleboster bravo took her arm. “This way, Lyssie. Our table is ready.”

Lyssel worked to disengage herself. “Just a moment. I must think.”

Her escort impatiently tried to lead her away. “Come along, Lyssie! Think at the table! There’s nothing here to detain us!”

Lyssel pulled her arm from his grasp. “Kosh, don’t be so masterful, and do stop that tugging! You’ll pull my arm from the socket!”

“We’ll lose our table,” growled Kosh, with one antagonistic eye on Jaro.

Lyssel saw the chance for mischief. “Excuse me; I’ve been rude! Jaro, this is Kosh Diffenbocker. Kosh, this is Jaro Fath.”

Kosh looked in puzzlement from Jaro to Lyssel, then spoke impatiently: “Come along, Lyssie, enough of this foolishness! We’ll lose our table if we don’t hurry!”

Lyssel gave him a little shove. “Then hurry! Go! Make haste! Leap, bound and run! This is Bumblebosters’ Panics; you can even play leap-frog along the way!”

“What shall I tell Hanafer?”

“Whatever you like; he’s no concern of mine and he takes far too much for granted.”

Kosh said uncertainly, “That’s Hanafer for you. He knows what he wants and when he wants it.”

“So I’ve noticed. For now, make sure of the table; I’ll be along in a moment.”

With poor grace Kosh Diffenbocker stalked away through the resplendent crowd. Lyssel turned back to Jaro, a smile trembling on her mouth. “Well then, Jaro, what do you think of our gorgeous Panics?”

“It’s very grand. I like the decorations.”

Lyssel laughed happily. “I worked on the committee. Look yonder! See that odd animal with the green hat and curled-over tail? I painted the entire tail, including the tuft! I was careful to select exactly the proper colors!”

“You did a splendid job. You were born to be an artist, rather than—” Jaro halted to look across the promenade. Lyssel demanded, “Rather than what?”

“Oh, let’s say, a mysterious woman of a thousand intrigues.”

“I want to be both!” declared Lyssel. “Why should I limit myself? Especially when I have important affairs to take up with you.”

“Ha hm. What sort of affairs?”

Lyssel airily fluttered her fingers. “Oh, just affairs.”

“I’m puzzled,” said Jaro. “At the terminal you made it clear that I was not only a nimp but also a very dull dog. Now, suddenly, everything is different. It’s fine Jaro, good Jaro, talented, delightful Jaro. Either you want something, or you have fallen in love with me and want to start up a whirlwind romance. So which is it?”

Lyssel shook her head in wonder. “I can’t believe that you’re so cynical! When we met at the terminal I was worried for my uncle, and perhaps I seemed a bit thoughtless. Today is different.”

“Exactly so,” said Jaro. “It’s today I wonder about. Why, suddenly, are we on such good terms?”

Lyssel reached out her forefinger and touched the tip of Jaro’s nose: an artful act which made her physical presence very real. Jaro decided that a love affair with Lyssel would be pleasant—if, perhaps, full of surprises. And also highly unlikely, in view of Lyssel’s social strivings. He asked, “Is that an answer? If so, I don’t understand it.”

“You weren’t meant to understand. That is how I conceal my secrets.”

“Too bad,” said Jaro. “I don’t have time for mysteries, so I’ll go back to being bad Jaro the spaceman.”

Jaro felt the loom of a tall shape at his back. Looking about, he found a bulky young man in the flamboyant market-day costume of a Poowaddle dog barber. It was Hanafer Glackenshaw, his face congested with anger. He addressed Jaro: “What’s all this? Why are you here? You’re a nimp and this is the Bumblebosters’ Panics—strictly Squared Circle! That makes you a damnable schmeltzer as well!”

Lyssel came forward. “Hanafer, don’t be such an idiot! Can’t you see he’s one of the musicians?”

“So what? He should be out of sight, behind the partition! Not down here!”

“Hanafer, please be reasonable! Jaro is doing no harm!”

“I am utterly reasonable! Behind that partition he is a musician; out here, simpering like a halfwit, he’s a schmeltzer.”

Lyssel shook her head in vexation. “You are becoming hysterical! Come now; Kosh is holding our table.” Over her shoulder she gave Jaro a quick glance, and led Hanafer away.

The episode had definitely annoyed Hanafer. He had never liked Jaro, whom he considered both smarmy and conceited. Secondly, to find a nimp like Jaro preening himself out in society, as if he had striven up the ledges, was deeply offensive.

On the way to the table Hanafer complained to Lyssel: “Why do you trouble to notice him? He’s a schmeltzing moop!”

Lyssel spoke flippantly, “Be just, Hanafer! He’s very intelligent, and he plays the suanola nicely. Also, he’s handsome in a strange archaic way, don’t you agree?”

“Certainly not!”

Lyssel enjoyed teasing Hanafer. “Don’t you think you could be more lenient, just for once? I’d like to invite him to our table; he’s actually an interesting person.”

Hanafer grated, “He can be the third coming of four-toed Gezemyer, for all I care. He’s not in the Circle, and that’s what counts in my book.”

“Hanafer, you really are extreme. I’m sorry that I must tell you this, but it’s true. The Squared Circle is not everything in life.”

“Ha hah! The Circle may not be everything, but it separates quality from schmeltzers, bounders and moops!”

“Surely, Hanafer, you’re not referring to Jaro?”

“I am exactly and precisely referring to Jaro. I call him a cad, a gak and a peeker, and if he starts smelling around you, I’ll be forced to teach him his piddles and squeaks.” Hanafer alluded to the parental discipline inflicted upon an unruly child.

“Well, you might as well know! I’m inviting him to the Multiflor, where he’ll be one of the strolling musicians, and I expect you to be courteous.”

“We’ll see. But if he starts schmeltzing, I’ll quickly set him right.”