THE WARLOCK'S GRANDFATHER, Part I

THE WARLOCK’S GRANDFATHER

Part I

Christopher Stasheff

Rory, 13th Count d'Armand, had lived long and prospered. He had labored to achieve an illustrious career, if that can truly be said of anyone who spent all seventy-three of his years on a backwater asteroid, and never sought to retire.

Instead, he began to ignore the business.

"But, Pater," said his heir Rupert, "the new line of automatons cannot be delayed any longer. The prototypes have been approved by the Family Committee and await only your assent."

"And the younger son and cousins are too timid to talk to the old man, so they've sent you to air their opinions?"

Rupert reddened. "It is my duty and privilege as senior of my generation, sir. Come, what is your judgment? It is time to retool or reject."

"I couldn't say." The Count frowned. "I really haven't had time to study the schematics and blueprints."

"You haven't... had...?"

"You look quite handsome with so ruddy a complexion, son—you really should spend more time under the tanning lamps. But no, I haven't; there have been more important matters claiming my attention." He nodded toward the glowing screen that hung on the wall.

"Your manuscript, yes, I know." Rupert reflected that perhaps Mater's death had stricken the old man harder than he had realized. "But the factory is the source of our income, Pater. Without it, there would be no money to support your literary endeavors."

Rory frowned. "I understand that quite well, son. I have guided d'Armand Automatons for forty years."

Rupert swallowed. "My apologies, sir. It is only that my priorities are, perhaps, somewhat other than your own."

"I know—I was young once, myself. I've matured, though, and come to feel the call of greater responsibilities."

"But sir, we must produce new models or lose our share of the market!"

"And so we shall."

"Which?" For a crazy moment, Rupert was afraid his father was planning to scuttle the family business. "Then you approve the new models?"

"Neither." The Count turned back to his screen. "I simply haven't time for such details. Do look after them for me, won't you, son?"

"Sir—are you asking me to assume responsibility for the entire operation?"

"What a splendid idea! Please do, Rupert—take care of all matters relating to trade. After all, you'll have to do it sooner or later—why not while I'm still here to consult, eh?"

"A masterful plan," Rupert agreed, feeling giddy with delight.

"So glad you agree. Now, do be off and let me go back to work, eh? There's a good lad."

"Quite surely, sir." And Rupert slipped out the door to give the master computer the go-ahead, and tell his wife Elaine the glorious news.

The Count watched the glowing blue print scroll past.

So Rupert took over the factory officially—he'd been doing it unofficially all year—and Rory devoted himself completely to his "scribbling," as he called it. Unfortunately, his style of composition seemed to involve a great deal of wandering about the castle, gazing off into space and muttering to himself. It was slightly unnerving for his sisters and his cousins and his aunts, not to mention his nieces and grand-nieces, or his nephews and grand-nephews. Whether it bothered his brother or not could only be learned by a spirit medium, but informed opinion suggests that illustrious d'Armand was above caring about such trivialities, having removed his operations to a loftier plane, courtesy of a bad bout of pneumonia.

In brief, Rory was the only male member of his generation left, the last thorn upon the bush, as it were, so he may be forgiven—though that statement might have been disputed by Lady Mirthlis, who came around a corner one evening and almost bumped into the Count. He was standing by a window and gazing out at the stars, muttering something under his breath. "Well!" she exclaimed, somewhat taken aback. "Your pardon, my lord."

"Eh? Oh! Surely, surely. Good day, Duchess." Rory inclined his head with an affable smile. The lady curtsied, and they both turned away, the Count to continue gazing and muttering, the lady to continue on her way to the drawing room, wondering why Rory had addressed her as "Duchess" when her husband was only a baron.

On a similar occasion, Sir Lantren happened to encounter Count Rory as he was strolling through the west gallery, gazing off into space. The baronet stopped for the obligatory salutation and few words of conversation. "Greetings, milord! And how do you fare today?"

"Fair indeed, Lord Lantren. Have you come to shine upon our court?"

Sir Lantren puffed himself up a little, please and flattered. "Oh, come now, milord. 'Tis good of you to notice my small triumph in the squash tournament."

"Not at all, good sir! So skilled a man as yourself lends luster to our Court of Granclarte! But I see you are accoutered for encounter; pray do not let me detain you. No, now, your opponent is waiting; be off with you, and may you fare well in the tourney!" The Count inclined his head, and Sir Lantren returned the gesture, then hurried away to his match. As the Count had guessed from the baronet's attire, he was indeed on his way to a game of squash with Rupert, his host. The old man's memory was not what it was, though, to have thought a younger son of a younger son could be a lord; still, it was pleasant to hear the title now and again. And if Sir Lantren should have had only a passing moment of puzzling at the Count's referring to the squash court as "Granclarte," it is not terribly surprising; Sir Lantren was the kind who dealt only with the here-and-now, and forebore speculation.

Of course, he also did not read, and consequently would not have noticed that, in Count Rory's chronicle that night, there appeared an account of the quest of the Knight of the Lantern, who had come to seek illumination for the Court of the Kings.

But Count Rory's absent-mindedness was scarcely so excusable when it was one of his own family whose title he misplaced. Admittedly, his family was extended, perhaps even overextended, but one would have expected Count Rory to remember the proper title of his own son-in-law.

"It was quite remarkable," Lord Blunt said to the heir and his wife, over coffee in their private apartments.

"Pater's mind is definitely wandering, darling," said Lady Florice.

"Not only his mind—it takes his body along." Lord Blunt shook his head in amazement. "One never knows where one will come across him, nowadays."

"Well, he has retired, milord," Rupert said, feeling rather uncomfortable. "I suppose he no longer feels constrained to be in any given place at any given hour."

"Perhaps, perhaps," Lord Blunt agreed. "But really, to address me as an earl! Surely he could remember that his son-in-law is a Marquis!"

"But of course." Lady Elaine showed a bit of pique; she was well aware that Florice had married up. Of course, so had she herself, but that only made things worse.

"And what was that deal of blather about Fess being 'an excellent squire?'" Lord Blunt tended to rant a bit, when he was sure he wouldn't be contradicted. "And this nonsense about the wonderful weather we're having? On an asteroid!"

Rupert was looking extremely nervous, so his younger brother Robin spoke up. "Pater has always lamented the lack of weather on Maxima, milord."

"Particularly snow at Christmas time," Lady Rose murmured.

Lady Elaine shot her a dark look and hurried to explain. "The Count claims that the dearth of atmosphere robs us of one of the most time-honored of conversational topics."

"Well, there's truth in that, of course," Lord Blunt grumbled, "but really! To try to rectify it by pretense!"

He wasn't the only one to be upset by Count Rory's rambling—but in Lady Rose's case, it was a matter of genuine concern. "Come, look at the beauties of our landscape!" the Count told her, and drew her over to the great quartz port in the drawing room. "Does it not fill you with a sense of peace?"

"Well—now that you mention it, there is tranquility in it." Rose was Robin's wife, but her attachment to the old Count went quite beyond that. She had come to have genuine affection for him, in spite of his occasional tempers and continual whimsies. So she gazed out at the harsh plain, filled with small craters and jutting spikes of rock, starkly lit by the shrunken sun. "But I do so miss the snows of the Catskills at Christmas time!"

Rory turned to her, his manic mood abated in sympathy. "Ah, poor waif! Poor Terran-born! To be thrown amidst the harsh crags of this drifting asteroid! I am wrong to bring you to the window! Come, let us return to the drawing-room, and the warmth of camaraderie!"

"No, no!" Rose caught his arm just as he turned. "It has a beauty of its own, Beau-Papa, this severe landscape of yours! It is only at such times as the Christmas season that I miss my home! The love that surrounds me is more than recompense for the loss of my homeland, with its crowding and rudeness and noise! At least on Maxima there is, as you say, tranquility!"

"Tranquility indeed!" Rory enthused. "The gently-rolling lawn, the hills that rise beyond it, verdant with pines! The dusty road where the laborers stroll home from their toils, amidst the hedgerows of a summer's eve!"

Rose looked up at him in surprise, then tried to hide a thrill of alarm. Surely he was not seeing the same landscape as she was! "You... will not venture out unattended, surely, milord?"

"No, of course not! Who ever heard of a knight embarking on a quest without his squire? No, wherever I wander, Fess will journey with me!"

"Quite a relief," Rose said. "I'm sure Fess would not let him go out on the surface without his pressure suit, or a safety line. But, Robin, I'm afraid for him!"

"Oh, he'll be all right, my dear, never fear!" Robin embraced his wife, partly in reassurance, partly to hide his own concern.

"But he said that someday, he must wander through the whole of 'this land of Dondedor,' to see the sights the nobles of the court speak of!"

"Well, I'll ask him to let me join his excursion," Robin promised, "and I'll tell Fess to call me, no matter where I am or what I'm doing."

"Oh, I know I'm being silly to worry!" Rose sniffled. "But, darling—what is 'Dondedor?'"

Rory gave up and turned away from his manuscript with a sigh. “I cannot heed the tales the knights have but lately told me, good Fess. When e’er I attempt to envisage, the picture of the face of my daughter-in-law rises up to obscure it, woebegone in her yearning for her lost home.”

“But the Lady Elaine can summon the torchship to whisk her over to her parents’ mansion in a matter of minutes, milord.”

“No, no, Fess! Our poor waif from Earth!”

“But the Lady Rose is happy in Chateau d’Armand, milord.”

“Well, yes, that is so,” the Count reflected, “but at the holidays, she misses her home terribly. She was commenting to me only today on her longing for the Snow of Yesteryear—or, at least, those of Michigan.”

“We could arrange a diorama, milord.”

“Why, what a wonderful idea!” The old Count looked up, eyes glowing. “See to it at once, Fess! Snow all over the chateau! Even the Dower House! Just what the poor lamb needs!”

“As you wish, my lord. Of what dimensions do you wish the diorama to be?”

“Diorama?” Rory looked up. “Oh no, Fess! No diorama! The real chateau—all of it!”

“But… my lord…” Fess’s computer-brain added up the gallons. “Where are we to obtain so much snow?”

“Why, from ice! We’re sitting on an ice mine, you know, Fess.”

“I am aware of it, milord.” Fess had supervised the building of the chateau. “But it will take a great many cubic kilograms of ice—and we will have to shave each one…”

“Take all you need!” Rory waved away the objection. “Whether we store it under the chateau or in it, what difference?”

“Evaporation my lord—or rather, sublimation, I should say. With no air, there will be no atmospheric pressure, and the crystals of ice will turn instantly to gas, without passing through the liquid state.”

“Yes, yes, I know what ‘sublime’ means, outside the field of aesthetics! But surely, it’s cold enough outside to prevent such a problem.”

“Only at night, sir—and the asteroid does face the sun now and again.”

“And the radiant energy might warm it enough to sublime?” The old lord frowned. “I shouldn’t think so—but certainly it warrants a test run. Melt the ice, boil it, and condense it as you shoot it out over the rooftops. Try it on the roof of the northwest gable, and if it doesn’t sublime, we’ll know we can do it.”

“And if it does, boss?”

“If it does…” The old lord scowled, deep in thought. Then he looked up, his face clearing. “Change it, Fess! Knock off the odd electron here and there. Make the ice crystals cling to one another. If they’re boded so tightly, they’ll stay solid.”

“And how am I to do that, sahib?”

“Bah! That’s just engineering!” The old lord dismissed the problem with a wave of his hand. “Run it through your circuits and see how it computes! Surely you can handle the details, Fess. Just see to it that my daughter-in-law has some snow for Christmas!” He turned back to his viewscreen, happily able to dismiss the problem of Rose’s unhappiness.

Fess turned away to begin executing his orders, and decided it would be easier to run a wire grid and have the rooftops generate a low-level force field.

Matters came to a head when Lady Penseclos forgot her clutch bag at dinner and didn't come back for it until the next day—after all, she knew the robots would no doubt have picked it up and be holding it for her. But in mid-afternoon, she had nothing else to do, so she came looking—and found a housekeeping robot trying to polish the silver while Rory was pinching its hip-rod and patting it on its universal joint. The robot didn't notice, of course—it had no sensors in those areas—but it was completely stymied by his 'commands.'

"Come, little butterfly! Let us sip the nectar while the roses bloom!"

"Does my lord wish a glass of apricot juice? I shall fetch..."

"Not your juice, my little blossom, but your petals!"

"I am equipped with servo-motors, my lord; there is no need for input of manual energy."

"Oh, but I have great need for fulfillment!"

"Luncheon is past, but if your lordship is feeling peckish, the kitchen can certainly provide for your needs."

"But it is you who I wish to have fulfill my needs, my little ruby!"

Lady Penseclos turned pale and backed away far more quickly than she had approached. Fortunately, the old lord did not see her, but kept up his dialogue with the robot, and Lady Penseclos could turn to run and fetch Lady Elaine.

"He's doing what?"

"Flirting with one of the household robots," Lady Penseclos panted. "You really must come put a stop to it, Elaine!"

"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?

"You must dress more warmly, Fess," Count Rory scolded his old family retainer.

"I am indifferent to temperature, my lord and master," Fess answered. He looked like a stick figure with a head the size of a basketball, which held the computer that served him as a brain.

"Bravely said!” Count Rory cried. “Yet your welfare is as much my responsibility as mine is yours. We must have that door installed."

"I shall have it done," Fess assured him.

Lady Elaine looked up in alarm. She certainly did not want a door partitioning the hall.

"What's done can be undone, sometimes," Rupert muttered, with a touch on her hand. His mind raced for a change of topic. "Are you in communication with other members of your profession on Terra, Doctor?"

Reves turned his gaze to Rupert, and the topic to his uses. "Only with those at the Eclectic University, Lord Rupert. They assure me that the probe will not be built."

"It will not?" Rory stared, aghast. "How dare they not sally forth to undertake the Quest that they have sworn!"

It was an odd metaphor for an unmanned space probe that was designed only to broadcast greetings from the Proletarian Eclectic State of Terra, and to record any responses that the frontier planets might make.

Dr. Reves turned back to him. "It would not be the first time the government of the Terran Sphere has refrained from doing something it has promised, milord."

"Nay, they have been foresworn indeed! The King did promise a Parliament, and forbore to call it; and when the lords did mutter in discontent, he prattled on of the needs of the treasury! As though mere tin could be of concern in affairs of honor! And he did swear to set we lords outlying on an equal footing with those sniveling courtiers who dwell in his capital—yet where is this 'program of rotation' he did speak of? Why, dead aborning, so soon as the mutterings of discontent subsided! Nay, he is not a king, but a knave, a craven, a blackhearted scoundrel who has so little semblance of honor as to care only for his own pleasures!" Rory paused for breath, red-faced and trembling. He began to rise as he inhaled for another blast.

"Should we not pity him, Pater?" Robin asked quietly.

Rory's head swiveled to face him, outrage paling his features. He could only gasp, "Pity?"

"Yes—for his days are numbered. Or his days in office, at least. He cannot put off the calls for election much longer."

"Aye, for so many lords demand this Parliament that all his horses and all his men cannot suffice to confront them!" Rory smiled, his complexion returning to normal. "Thou hast the right of it—the King must abdicate ere long!" He sat down again, and turned to Fess. "Fill the glasses, butler—for a toast, to Parliament!"

For once, Lady Elaine insisted on the grand old custom of the ladies retiring to the drawing room, all of herself and Rose, leaving the gentlemen to their brandy and cigars (the air-purifying filters were up to the worst of anything old Terra could provide). Rose's heart warmed at the thought that her sister-in-law was accommodating her father-in-law's antiquarian preferences, until she realized Elaine was white-faced and trembling, and had taken the first possible excuse to leave the field to the gentlemen. Rose set herself to trying to calm Elaine, while their husbands finished doing the same to Rory.

Dr. Reves sipped his brandy and said, "Your sons tell me you have undertaken the development of a work of fiction of truly staggering proportions, milord."

"Fiction?" Rory turned to his sons with a scowl. "Why on earth would you have told him it was fiction?

Robin got a faraway look in his eyes while he tried to dream up a politic answer, and Rupert reddened and cleared his throat to stall for time, but Dr. Reves said smoothly, "No doubt a misunderstanding, milord. I had assumed it to be a work of fiction, since I have never heard of an estate called Granclarte."

"Oh, but it is more than an estate, milord! 'Tis the seat of the Kings of Dondedor, and the capital of that realm!"

"Indeed." Dr. Reves lowered his cigar, frowning. "I blush to admit I am ignorant in these matters. Where is Dondedor?"

"In the Middle Realm, milord, though far from its center. In truth, it is a Marcher kingdom, on the boundary between the lands of Law and Order, and those of Barbarism and Chaos."

"Ah." Dr. Reves had become very still, watching Count Rory with all his attention. "And how is it we others are unaware of it?"

"Ah, because you have not opened yourselves to the perception of it, milord! In truth, it lies all about us, and yet infinitely distant, for 'tis another aspect of reality, and may only be gained by passage through a higher dimension!"

"And you have learned how to make that transition?"

"Aye, and 'tis only a step away, thereby."

Dr. Reves held out his snifter to Fess. "And the folk there—are they aware of your presence?"

"Aye, for I am Chronicler to the Court of Granclarte. All come to me to speak of the wonders they have wrought, and the prodigies of their accomplishments!"

"So the events you write of, have actually happened in Dondedor?"

"Are happening, milord, are happening! For oft do I inscribe the beginning of a tale, hard upon its occurrence! Admittedly, I must await the outcome and report, if the events transpire far from the walls of Granclarte—as they have in the quest of the knight Beaubras. I myself beheld the damsel Clematis come into the Court, with quavering words of the coming of the ogre Boartooth, and saw how our noble King Flambeau did send forth his most gallant knight, with a score of men-at-arms at his back, to battle with the monster."

"But you could not know what happened on that mission?"

"Not until a man-at-arms returned, with news of the encounter—how the knight alone had gone against the ogre, and Oh! Milord! The clash of arms between them was like to make the earth shake! For the ogre hefted high his massy bludgeon, and did smite with all his force at proud Beaubras—but Rovisage, his valiant steed, did dance aside, and the monster's blow did smash the earth into a basin. Yet whiles he struck, Beaubras drew out his sword Aiguise..."

And on he went, and on. Dr. Reves gazed at him in total concentration, while Robin sat back, smiling, letting himself be drawn into the fascinating, glowing world of his father's imagination. And, as the tale spun on, even Rupert began to fidget less, and lose some of his look of embarrassment.

"We have come to join you, my dear."

Lady Elaine visibly braced herself, then turned slowly, with a nice attempt at a smile—and went rigid at the sight of Rory. Rose really couldn't understand why—the old dear was at his most charming, sweeping a gallant bow to them both and chatting amiably as the husbands held chairs for the ladies and Fess seated first Count Rory, then Dr. Reves, and set a deck of cards on the table. Rose watched Elaine out of the corner of her eye, alert for trouble, but she was between her sister-in-law and Count Rory, so Elaine began to relax a bit. She calmed remarkably as the play progressed and the talk tapered off, and no one was the worse for wear. Pont was an absorbing game, no matter what archaic name Rory wished to call it by. Almost too soon, it seemed, Fess was murmuring, "Lord and Sahib, you have an early day tomorrow."

"Oh! Yes, I have, haven't I?" Rory frowned and rose with a sigh. "Well, there's no help for it—duty must be done."

"Perhaps we should all..."

"No, no, not a word of it, Lord Hypoc!" Rory held up a restraining hand. "You young folk must keep on without me; you mustn't abate your pleasures simply because I must leave."

"As you wish, Pater." The gentlemen started to rise, but Rory waved them back. "Sit down, sit down! There is no need for such ceremony—though I must admit I enjoy it. Good night to you all."

"Good night, Pater."

"Good night, milord."

And Rory left in a chorus of good wishes, with Fess behind him. The gentlemen remained standing in frozen tableau until the door slid firmly shut behind Fess.

Then Rupert collapsed with a shuddering sigh, pressing a hand to his brow. "No one should have heard that but family!"

"Oh, come now, Rupert." Robin resumed his seat, smiling. "It wasn't so bad as all that."

"So bad!" Elaine squawked. "With a stranger present? ...Oh! I'm sorry, Doctor.”

"Not at all, milady." Dr. Reves smiled, amused, as he sat down again. "And please do not feel put out—that was, after all, what I came to hear."

"In fact, even solicited." Robin nodded. "You drew him out excellently, Doctor."

"Training and practice." Reves waved away the compliment. "All an aspect of my profession—which, I assure you, includes total confidentiality."

"Thank Heaven for that! A stranger might have thought Pater was speaking sedition!"

"I suppose that could be said of all of us," Dr. Reves mused. "However, we seem to be in agreement with an overwhelming majority on all the planets except Terra itself."

"And even there, we have indications that the people are unhappy with PEST." Robin nodded. "Although that might just be a matter of their beginning to believe the Dictator is powerless to stop them."

"But there is no Parliament, of course," Rupert said firmly.

"No, though there is some likelihood of some sort of representative body forming," Dr. Reves demurred.

"Will it require a war, though?" Robin mused, looking at the brandy in his snifter. "Or will the Dictator have sense enough to step aside gracefully?"

"A fascinating question, I'm sure," Rupert said impatiently. "However, the question in hand concerns our father, not our government. What is your diagnosis, Doctor?"

"Your father is an immense success," Dr. Reves sighed.

"Success?" Rupert frowned. "In what way?"

"He has immensely succeeded in escaping reality."

The room was silent for a moment.

Then Robin leaned back with a sigh. "I was afraid you would say something like that."

Elaine found her voice gain. "Well, really, Robin! It was rather obvious, you know. But Doctor, is he really seeing all the things he is describing to us?"

"He is, milady, unless he is perpetrating a huge hoax on us all."

"I wouldn't put it past him," Rupert muttered darkly.

"Perhaps not, but we must assume he is sincere."

"But how can he be speaking to us, in our own world?" Rose frowned.

"He perceives you all as denizens of Granclarte, milady, even as he himself is—but he sees you as emissaries from the world he has left."

"My lord!" Robin stared, appalled. "You mean he thinks it's we who travel from universe to universe, not him?"

"Yes, if he concerns himself about it at all—which I don't think he does. To him, the two worlds seem thoroughly compatible; he sees no need to rationalize their junction."

"But what could have moved him to such extremes?" Rupert scowled.

"The tedium of an obscure and isolated life, milord. Oh, you and I may not mind the isolation, since we have the companionship of kindred spirits available, and have occasionally sojourned on Terra—but I infer that your father wished to live there, and was prevented from decamping by his rank."

"He was the only son," Rupert mused, "after his elder brother died."

Dr. Reves nodded. "Finally, he acknowledged that he would never be able to leave home—and that despair, when deepened by the loss of his wife, moved him to invent a fantasy world of his own, of which he is official chronicler, retaining his own name and rank, but residing at the court."

"The poor man." Rose was dewy-eyed.

"Poor us, rather!" Elaine said indignantly. "It's we who must bear the burden of his delusion!"

"Oh, we can cope with it, surely!" Rose protested. "At least, we can once we know of it. It's been the surprise of it all that has disconcerted us."

Elaine didn't look convinced.

"We must, in any case," Rupert grumbled.

"There isn't much choice," Robin agreed, "though there's no harm in it, either, since he has relinquished the running of the factory to you, and the running of the household to Elaine."

"There's some truth in that," Rupert muttered. "But it's a deuced inconvenience."

"Yes, perhaps that's the mark of it." Dr. Reves smiled thinly. "He has inconvenienced himself for others' sake, all his life, and has finally decided to do as he wishes."

"Oh, ho!" Robin grinned. "You mean it's our turn to be inconvenienced? Well, I must say there's some poetic justice in that."

Rupert frowned, and Elaine looked downright resentful—she hadn't grown up in Castle d'Armand, after all; Rory's self-sacrifice hadn’t been for her.

Rose, on the other hand, realized that she did benefit by Rory's life. But then, she was glad she had Robin.

"He must, of course, be watched continually," Dr. Reves cautioned. "He might let his delusion lead him into danger."

Robin nodded. "We've been alert for that. All the robots are programmed to notify us of unusual behavior, and we try to make sure one of us is always nearby."

"That's most important." Dr. Reves nodded. "Loneliness is his Nemesis now."

"Isn't it for us all?" Elaine muttered, but Robin added, "Fess is good company, robot or no, Doctor. And, of course, he's a most excellent sentry. So he can be alert for signs of..." he couldn't quite finish the sentence.

"Be watchful, in case he deteriorates into a less-controlled condition?" Reves nodded. "Of course. But there's really no sign of that."

"Well, that's a relief, at least."

Rupert was still concerned, though. "What if Pater decides to exercise his authority again, Doctor? I mean, we can't have the factory running like a medieval smithy!"

"There's no danger of that, at the moment."

"I should say not!" Robin declared. "He wants to be as far from the factory as he can!"

Rupert turned to stare at his brother. "You understand his feelings?"

Robin's smile slipped. "Well, let us say I can envision the situation from his perspective."

Rose turned to gaze at her husband, musing.

"But don't be concerned, old fellow," Robin said. "If he attempts anything of the kind, I daresay I can talk his sort of reason with him."

"No doubt you can." Rupert was eyeing his brother a little oddly, but all he said was, "Stay close to him, will you, Robin?"

TO BE CONTINUED…

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