A For Anything

7

A little before six they were crossing the Allegheny Plateau south of the ancient city of Pittsburgh -- detouring, Dick judged, so as to stay out of sight of the great houses that clustered more thickly to northward. Once into the plain, they turned still more to the south, more than seemed sensible; but Dick let the matter go. He ate without appetite from the tray Padgett served him; he felt numbed and listless. The one burst of anger had been his last. The image of Cashel's falling body was still with him; he worried at it absently, as if it were an old sore tooth gone dead at the root.

Past the Mississippi the wild country began, thousands of square miles of nothing but grass, rippling in the wind like an endless yellow-green sea. It was hypnotic and disturbing; Dick found himself overwhelmed by the sheer brutal size of the world. From their height, the great plain had a perceptible curvature; clear and bright in the sun, it looked as if they could reach down and touch it; and yet he knew that those clustered black dots, almost invisible, must be men or animals ...

"Bison," said Padgett with interest, peering down through a pair of binoculars. "Quite a good-sized herd. And there's a hunting party -- Comanches, probably."

He passed the binoculars to Dick. Staring down at the suddenly magnified scene, he could see the dusty brown backs humping along like a living avalanche; flights of birds exploded ahead of them from the grass, and an occasional frantically tossing head of deer or antelope zigzagged away to either side. Behind them came the hunters, round black heads over the manes of the horses. Dick saw two or three rifles; the rest of the party were armed with bows. The bobbing forms were tiny and doll-like, unreal in their silence: for one moment Dick could almost imagine himself astride the plunging body, dust hot in his nostrils, the drumming of hooves in his bones ... then it was gone. The tiny figures raced backward, lost in another dimension.

The sun rose with torturous slowness; the morning seemed to take forever. Unused to sitting still so long, Dick felt his muscles beginning to cramp. Padgett sat placidly beside him, eyes bright with interest. He was too well trained to speak when not spoken to, but Dick could tell that the stream of informative comment was running along just the same in his neat gray head. If they passed over a ruined city, visible like a pale scar through the earth that had mounded it over, Padgett would know or conjecture which one it was, and could tell you who founded it, and many curious and edifying incidents hi its history. He knew the names of mountains and rivers, where the old state lines had run, which half-visible tracks were railroads, which highways.

"Padgett," said Dick, "do you think there's going to be a feud?"

The tutor looked at him gravely. "There was a similar case," he said, "I remember, in the Carolinas, some thirty or thirty-five years ago. One cousin was said to have drowned the other in Port Royal Sound; of course, the elder branch claimed it was an accident. The following year, there were three or four more deaths from duels between the two branches of the family, and I believe one man shot from ambush. The Columbia House Bretts, and the Pamlico Bretts. I don't suppose you ever heard of them; the male line is extinct, if I am correct." When Dick was silent, he added, "Of course, that was some time back, but I would say it could happen. Your family has a certain reputation for hot-headness."

Dick felt a flush warming his cheekbones; he almost welcomed it as a relief from the numbness. "I don't care what you think," he said. "I'd do the same thing again."

"Oh, well," said Padgett, unabashed, "it may very well have been the best thing you could have done. For the time being, at least; in the long run, no one can say."

Dick looked at him curiously. "How's that?"

"Reputation is everything in a place like Eagles. I imagine the rumors will be flying ahead of you; it isn't every youngster who comes to Eagles fresh from his first mankilling. And of course," while you're there, you'll be relatively safe from reprisals; however, at the same time, a young man with a reputation has to maintain it. On the whole," said Padgett, leaning back in his familiar summing-up attitude, "I'd say your chances have been widened, in both directions, by the duel ... Ah! There they are; aren't they beautiful?" He leaned forward again, gazing raptly out the window. "I've always wanted to live in the Rockies."

Floating toward them from the horizon, the first phalanx of mountains stood up bare-headed; not like Pennsylvania's gentle hills, they sprawled peaked and blue-violet, with patches of late snow on the upper slopes. Dick stared, fascinated. Closer, he could see the black parallel lines of burnt tree-trunks against a slope of bluish white snow, like stubble on a pale chin. Closer still, the mountains grew steeper and more desolate until they were flying through a high gorge between two ranges of cloud-veiled peaks. The river, serpentine down below, was a thin silver ribbon hi the softness of the green valley; the crags above were majestic, naked rock keen in the wind. And as they flew, at the head of the valley loomed the tallest peak of all, with a gleam and glitter of buildings at its summit.

There were striations of ivory and blue, knife-edges of brass, glints of jade green, saffron, cocoa brown. Level after level rose to cover the peak, like a many-colored hat on a giant's head, and at the top it blossomed into pure fantasy -- pinnacles, minarets, domes, and one incredible shape, a skeletal golden tower that disappeared in the turbulent clouds high overhead.

"Eagles," said Padgett, and fell silent again.

The mountain loomed higher still; the fantastic city tilted its face upward. They were losing altitude, dropping toward the foot of the mountain, where Dick could see a scattering of buildings, like something spilled from the heights. "Why aren't we landing at the top?" he asked.

"It's the updraft. They heat the whole mountain top, and I suppose they're not too careful about insulation; anyhow, at this altitude, it makes quite a powerful ascending current of air. Notice the clouds, how they break and boil up just overhead. You couldn't land a plane there -- or drop a bomb, either, for that matter. You'll go up by the funicular." He pointed, and Dick for the first time noticed a line of suspended cables that swooped up the mountainside. One car was crawling up as he watched, another descending. Up forward; the radio was muttering at Otto. They leveled off and hovered until a Hock of small copters got out of the way, then lowered to one of the small landing areas that were clustered on either side of the central runway system. The almost inaudible howl of the jet and props cut off, leaving a ringing silence.

An armed, uniformed man boarded the dyne almost as soon as the door was open; his speech was so good that Dick answered a whole series of mildly insulting questions, taking him for a person, before he noticed the green tattoo on his forehead, half hidden by the visor of his cap. The fellow was a slob; and he had coolly demanded -- and received -- Dick's sidearm. Sputtering with indignation, Dick was about to demand the gun back, but the cautionary pressure of Padgett's hand stopped him.

Other places, other customs, Dick remembered. "Come on, Padgett," he said, getting up, "you can say good-bye to me at the cable-cars, anyhow."

"I would not advise it," said the uniformed guard. "They would stop him at the next check point, and then there might be a little trouble. He could not accompany you as far as the funicular, in any case. These, incidentally -- " he waved toward Blashfield and the rest of the guard, sitting glumly silent in the rear of the cabin -- "being armed, must stay in the dyne."

"Good-bye, misser Dick," called Blashfield gruffly.

"Good-bye," said Padgett, pressing his hand. Dick saw with surprise that the old man's eyes were moist; "God guard you," said the tutor, huskily, and stepped back.

"Now if you will, young mister -- " the guard was saying.

Dick stepped down. Slobs in white coveralls were unloading the dyne's luggage compartment, trundling the bags away on handcarts. The guard led him away in a different direction; two others hi the same uniform, armed with semi-automatics, fell in behind.

"Where are they going with my things?" Dick asked, pointing.

"To inspection. Everything will be returned to you in good order. Now if you will step in here --"

"Here," was a low stucco building in which Dick was fluoroscoped, fingerprinted, examined by a dentist who tapped all his fillings, and given an identity bracelet, which, he later discovered, was locked on and could not be opened.

Sobered and with much to think about, he found himself half an hour later standing on the glassed-in platform of the funicular railway, waiting for the down car to arrive! On the platform were three of the omnipresent, gray-uniformed airport guard, plus half a dozen people -sunburned men in big, gold-trimmed white hats, two pretty women in flimsy dresses, a bearded man in a turban, carrying a briefcase.

When the car came down -- an archaic-looking thing, painted black and gold -- only four passengers got out of it. Three wore a scarlet uniform. As far as Dick could see, they were armed only with light wooden cudgels. The fourth was a man in black, with a white face. The three marched him over to the waiting airport guards, left him there, and marched back into the car. When Dick looked back over his shoulder, the man in black was trudging away in the midst of the gray squad -- going where? What had he done?

The car was narrow and stuffy; the seats, set one above the other like chairs in an auditorium, were upholstered in stiff crimson plush. After an interminable wait, the car jerked, throbbed, and began to rise.

Dick leaned across the aisle toward one of the men in white hats. "Pardon. Is this the only way to get up to Eagles?"

The man looked surprised. He was lean and stringy, burnt the color of copper; his eyebrows and lashes were almost invisible. "No," he said mildly. "They's an express tube, comes out down the valley. Depends how much traffic, whetha they let you use it." After a moment he asked, "Your first time up?"

Dick nodded. The sunburnt man squinted at him confidentially, lowered his voice still more. "Don't ask too many questions," he said, and leaned back.

The trip took forever. Bored, half suffocated, Dick got out eventually on a broad glassed-in platform that seemed to overhang the valley. He stared down, fascinated; down at the bottom, where the converging lines of the cable railway disappeared, the valley was a cup of gold, the snaky line of the river was intolerably bright, even through the tinted glass. Wisps of cloud vapor rushed upward past the window; the big panes bowed inward, trembled, straightened, bowed in again ...

All his previous life seemed to be down there in that improbable cup of gold somewhere, silent and stifled. Voices echoed behind him, footsteps; a hand plucked at his sleeve.

He turned. People were crossing the platform in all directions, a glitter of color, a babble of voices. He saw three different uniforms, two beautiful women, a gang of slobs with a handtruck piled high with boxes. There was a man in a gorgeous garment of peach satin, the sleeves padded and puffed until they swelled him to twice his size; chain around his neck with a golden pendant; beard on his chin, rings on his plump fingers. He passed leisurely, leaving a wisp of perfume in his wake. Here came two women in big white headdresses, walking together, close in conversation; their black skirts swished to the ground. There strolled a boy, not more than twelve, resplendent in red-orange tights, eating peanuts from a cloth bag.

Nearer, an ugly face was peering up into his own, as good-humored and misshapen as a bulldog's. There was barely room on the fellow's forehead for his green slobmark; his ears were enormous and hairy, his nose flat. "Your firs' time at Eagles, Misser Jones?" he said hoarsely. "If you would condescend yourseff to come this way with me, jus' for a minute now -- " He backed away, showing a mouthful of tusks in what was meant for an ingratiating grin.

Dick followed, across the platform to an open booth where another slob sat, this one a bored, sallow-skinned fellow with mournful brown eyes. "Here we have with us now Misser Richer Jones," said the gargoyle, slapping his palm on the counter. "You take good care of him now, and no nonsense, you mind?"

The bored slob, with a look of distaste, reached below the counter and produced two articles, a belt with two thin chains dangling from it, and a slender wooden staff about a yard long, knob-tipped at either end.

The gargoyle, grunting with satisfaction, seized the belt and began to fasten it around Dick's waist. "What's this?" said Dick, resisting. For the first time, he noticed that both slobs were wearing similar belts, with the chains attached somehow to their sleeves just above the elbow. "This is what we call the elbow check, Misser Jones," said the gargoyle, deftly threading one of the needle-tipped chains through the slack of Dick's right sleeve. "All the men got to wear them at Eagles, and the buck servan's too. You find before you know it that they won' bother you at all." He threaded the second chain through the other sleeve in the same way, removed the needles, and snapped the ends of the chains to studs on the belt. Moving his arms experimentally, Dick found the chains prevented him from raising his hands higher than his head.

Looking around irritably, he saw that it was true: sure enough, everyone in sight was wearing some version of the belt and chains. He still didn't like it. "I don't understand. What's this for?"

"Jus' to keep the men from disagreeing so much among theyselves," said the gargoyle. "An' it protects the ladies a little, too. Now this is the stick, what we call the swagger stick -that's the only weapon you can have in Eagles, but I jus' show you that now; no use you to take it with you before you learn youseff how to use it the proper and correct way." He handed it across the counter to the other slob.

"But I do know how to use it," said Dick, reaching. "Damn!" The chain brought him up short; he couldn't extend his arm fully.

The gargoyle doubtfully put the stick in his hand. "You sure now, Misser Jones? With the chains, an' all?"

Dick balanced the weight of the thing across the ringers; there was about an ounce of lead in each of the padded knobs, he judged. The ones he had used at home were heavier; otherwise there was no difference, except, of course, the handicap of the chains. Evening after evening, ever since he was twelve, he had got his knuckles bruised and his nose bleeding -- to his intense disgust, since nobody ever fought with sticks -- down in the gymnasium with his father. Engage, thrust, cover, parry, chop, backhand, retire ... it was in his bones, and he had never suspected what it was for until now.

"I can handle it," he said, and thrust the stick into a spring clip at the side of his belt, where it seemed to belong.

The slob behind the counter had produced a thick loose leaf book and was turning the pages. "Jones," he said, "let's see ... "

"Nev' mind!" cried the gargoyle. "You don' have to tell me, I know where Misser Jones belongs. Come right this way, misser -- we fix you up in one, two, three time!"

The archway under which they passed was a single huge sheet of some white metal, intricately hand-chased in a design of running deer and oak-leaves. Silver light spilled down it from a trough-shaped reflector at the ceiling. Beyond that, the hall was brown translucent glass, lit from behind; the floor itself was heavy glass, under which water ran in a shallow channel.

They climbed three ivory steps and threaded their way through a gossiping crowd that half-filled a large hall. A peacock strutted across their path, tail-feathers spread like a many-eyed gossamer fan. Music murmured from somewhere, broken by the harsh shrieks of cockatoos, caged in a brilliant line down the farther wall.

Dick looked around disapprovingly as he walked. There were too many people -- all, to his way of thinking, ridiculously overdressed -- ; the place was too big and too gaudy, and in spite of the sickly sweet overtone of perfume, it smelled bad. Here they went down another shallow flight of steps and under another scrolled archway: the place seemed to be built on half a dozen levels, without plan or purpose.

Now they were in a narrow corridor whose golden walls and floor were as irregularly curved as a natural tunnel dug out of the earth. Down one side of it, swift and deep, flowed what must be the same stream he had seen before. Here it had no floor over it, and no guard-rail either. A dark shape flickered past, a young trout perhaps, but it was gone too quickly to see. Dick looked back over his shoulder; at the end of the corridor, the stream dived out of sight.

Just ahead, a young man was kneeling with one hand in the water, while a little knot of people -- two girls, another young man, a handful of slobs in wine silk -- looked on. As they approached, another dark shape hurtled down the stream; the kneeling young man moved convulsively, exclaimed, "Ha!" and held up his hand in triumph. In a soaked cloth bag of Kelly green -- his hat, evidently, since it matched his costume -- a fish squirmed and flopped. Laughing, he shook it out onto the floor. The spilled water splattered Dick to the knees.

Still kneeling, the young man looked up with a glint of humor. The fish, a speckled trout, arched itself once, twice, and toppled into the stream; it splashed and was gone.

"Good shot?" asked the young man, still smiling easily. He was blond and handsome; the fanciful lace-trimmed collar of his tunic was open over a strong brown throat. Behind him, the others watched silently.

"Misser," said the gargoyle, taking Dick's arm, "this corridor is too trafficky today -- better we go round by the South Promenade."

"Leave him alone, Frankie," said the young man without turning his head. "I asked him a question."

The cold water was soaking through Dick's trouserlegs to the skin. "It was a good shot," he said.

The gargoyle, Frankie, was whispering in his ear, "That's Jerry Keel, misser, be careful -- " Ignoring him, Dick leaned swiftly, scooped up a palmful of water and flung it at the other's face.

The blond man, Keel, was up instantly, nose and chin dripping, knobbed swagger stick in his hand. His smile was tight over his teeth. "Now, then, let's see," he said.

"Jer, he's a green calf," one of the girls murmured.

"He's wearing a stick, isn't he? Come on, you, don't keep me waiting."

Dick drew the staff free of its clip and closed his fist around one of the knobbed ends. Cautiously, he and Keel advanced toward each other, toeing toward the edges of the puddle of water. Dick found the elbow chain a little disconcerting; he would have to try to remember he couldn't make a full lunge ...

They engaged. Keel had a curious, negligent stance; he held the stick palm up, rapped it against Dick's with offensive gentleness. Angered, Dick feinted right, left, and swung for the other's knuckles. Wood met wood, jarringly; Keel's stick whirred with motion, grazed Dick's wrist, then hit his staff so shrewdly on the backswing that he nearly dropped it.

Both drew back for a moment, staring at each other. Then Keel stepped forward and Dick met him, each treading dangerously on the slick wet metal. Keel engaged with a flurry of beats, ending with a straight thrust which Dick answered by a back-parry and lunge. Keel made an assault on the elbow and hand; Dick double-parried, shifted his grip and cut over, narrowly missing Keel's face. They stepped back again, breathing a little heavily.

Dick's wrist was numb, and the inside of his elbow chafed from trying to lunge farther than the chain would permit. Keel grinned at him, swung his stick twice with a whit, whit, and stepped forward again.

They engaged a third time; Keel feinted twice, parried Dick's counter-thrust, and lunged. Dick saved himself by leaping back, but immediately closed again with a strong beat, chop and thrust. Keel parried; when his guard was high, Dick stepped across the puddle and closed in. Keel staggered, off balance; Dick hit him solidly with a body check. They lurched, grappling together; Dick fended off Keel's clutching hand and shoved again. With a wild yell and a splash, Keel went into the stream.

The crowd ohh-ed. Dick heard a thump; he turned in time to see Keel's head and one arm appear, haloed in spray, where the water arched down under the wall.

There was a scurrying of footsteps. "Fair play! Fair play!" boomed a sudden voice. Keel's friend and two or three slobs, hurrying toward him, stopped and drew back. Standing inside the corridor entrance was a stocky man in green and russet silks. His hair was iron-gray under a foolish, lemon-colored hat, but his eyes were black and brilliant. "You know the rules," he said, and turned to Dick with an ironic salute of his stick.

In the water a yard away, Keel's body was spread-eagled against the narrowing sides of the channel. The passage, Dick saw with horror, had no bars or grille across it: the only thing that kept Keel from being swept down with the current was the pressure of his hands and feel against the smooth metal. The elbow chains prevented him from taking a secure hold; the force of the falling stream was tremendous. He could not move, or he would lose his grip. Water and spray covered him above the chin: he was slowly drowning where he stood.

Dick's involuntary motion was checked. "Jones?" said the stocky man quietly, with the stick he held resting lightly on Dick's arm. His voice was deep but breathy, with the suspicion of a lisp. His face was an unhealthy paper-gray, his nose beaked, his mouth firm and thin.

"What?" said Dick. "Yes, but -- "

"My name is Ruell. Ruell. Take my advice -- let him go. He would have done it to you."

The man's dark, wet head had dropped a little farther forward. The muscles of his back quivered and seemed about to relax. Dick had a sudden incongruous vision of another body falling, leaning head downward into the bright grass.

His mouth was dry. "Get out of my way!" he said hoarsely. He flung his stick away, careless of where it went, and kneeled on the brink with one foot precariously braced against the side of the entrance. He got his hands around Keel's wet, cold, wrist, and pulled.

A giant's hand was tugging Keel the other way. Dick went down on one side, still hanging on. He was sliding toward the edge, helplessly; the lights in the ceiling were a bewildering glare.

Arms went around his waist. There was a clatter of sticks on the metal, voices babbling; another giant's hand began to pull him backward. Dick's arms threatened to come, out of their sockets; he hung on grimly. Keel's arm and lolling head came reluctantly over the brink, then the other hand, feebly groping; then the rest of him.

It was not Keel's friend, as Dick had imagined, who had held him by the waist, but the gargoyle, Frankie. The friend, a man with a dark forelock and a sullen lip, was looking on from the background. Rolling to his feet, Frankie bent over Keel, then straddled him and-began to push rhythmically at his ribs. A little water dribbled out of Keel's mouth; he stirred. "He be arright," said Frankie cheerfully. "If you wait for me jus' a little minute now, Misser Jones, I take you to you' rooms."

The stocky man (Ruell? Why was that name, familiar?) had bent to retrieve his swagger stick and was delicately dusting his hands. He must have been the third man, then, on the human chain that had dragged Keel to safety. "I'll take him," he said, with a stiff little bow to Dick. "If the mister doesn't object. What suke?"

"Number H 103 -- in the rosewood court aroun' by the Old Fountain."

"I know where it is. Come along then, Mister Jones; you've done quite all you can do here."

As they passed, the sullen young man made a sudden face and gesture: "Jerry won't forget you!"

"Nor will he," murmured Ruell, strolling on at Dick's elbow. "You made a mistake; Keel is not a grateful man, he's too vain. I now warn you again, and then I'll drop the subject: you had better kill that man if you can, the first chance you get."

They were crossing a huge, paved courtyard, glassed in fifty feet above, with beds of geometrically planted geraniums and phlox, dogwood, asters, delphiniums, tulips. Dick felt bewildered and weak from reaction; he said, "Why did you help me pull him out, then?"

"It was your choice," said Ruell, indifferently. "On your left," he went on, "the Winton Number One." He was pointing to a hideous object on a flagstone dais, a four-wheeled golden carriage with lucite wheels and an embroidered canopy over the open seat. Every inch of surface was chased, engraved, jeweled, elaborately ornamented. "One of the first automobiles sold in the United States," Ruell said. "A reconstruction, however -- historically valueless, but the only one of its kind." He pointed again. "On your right, an early Packard -- the first with a wheel instead of a tiller. Beyond that, of , course, is the Stanley Steamer."

"Is that what the Boss collects?" Dick asked. "Autos?" "Ha!" said Ruell, explosively. His nose twitched and his eyebrows went up. "Ha, ha! Oh, ha, ha, ha, ha! Ah, my dear boy -- " He hugged himself with one arm, with the other clapped Dick on the shoulder.

Dick moved away. "What's so funny?"

"Now here," said Ruell, recovering instantly, "we have the famous Old Fountain." It was a waist-high flagstone pool, twenty feet across, with a thin jet of water in the middle. "The eel-like fish," said Ruell, "are lampreys. Quite unpleasant -- they cling to their prey with that toothed sucker, then rasp a hole in it with their tongues, which also have teeth. A Roman of the time of Augustus kept lampreys in his fishpond, and threw slaves to them for trivial offenses. Vedius Pollio was his name; that was twenty-one centuries ago. Plus $a change, plus c'est la meme chose."

Dick stopped and turned to face him. "My rooms can't be far from here," he said. "I imagine I can find them myself. Goood-bye."

Ruell stopped him, looking contrite. "My dear boy, I didn't mean any offense. I laughed, impolitely, at your ignorance. You asked if the Boss collects cars -- well, I can't just at the moment think of anything the Boss does not collect. He collects collections. He collects interminably and insatiably. This whole mountain, in fact," he said persuasively, taking Dick's arm again, "is little more than a thin shell, over a bottomless pit of the Boss's collections. Now. Your suite is just here."

Dick allowed himself to be led again, thinking it the quickest way to get rid of the man. There was something he profoundly disliked and distrusted about him; perhaps it had something to do with the nagging familiarity of the name Ruell -- He stopped suddenly, feeling for the thin envelope he had stuffed into his breast pocket. It was still there.

"Yes?" said Ruell, alertly. "Have you something for me?"

"If you're the man my father -- I mean, if your name is -- "

"Leon Ruell; of course; I thought you knew. But don't let's talk here -- one moment" He leaned, opened a carved rosewood door, urged Dick inside.

The ceilings were immensely high, ending in peaked, prismed skylights from which a multicolored radiance spilled down the walls. The walls to a level above Dick's head were of carved rosewood; the rest was blue plaster. From beyond a doorway came the sound of hammering: the rooms had a musty, untenanted air.

"You'll be comfortable enough here," said Ruell, sniffing disparagingly, "for a day or so, until we can find you more suitable quarters. Now, then, if you please." He held out his hand; Dick put the envelope in it.

Ruell, with an apologetic nod, turned half away, slit the envelope with his thumbnail, opened a sheet of flimsy paper and read it slowly. When he was done, he creased the paper thoughtfully once, twice, and began to eat it. He smiled at Dick's astonishment. "Rice paper," he said, swallowing. "Haven't you ever used that trick? Well, you will, you will."

The hammering had stopped. From the other room came the gargoyle, Frankie, dressed in a blue overall like a show dog and carrying a box of carpenter's tools. He nodded cheerfully to Dick. "We fix you up, one, two, three, Misser Jones." He went out; there was a brief colloquy at the door, and he came in again, dressed in a yellow coverall and carrying a painter's kit.

Dick stared at him with his jaw unhinged. "All done pretty quick, Misser Jones," said Frankie, grinning happily; he disappeared into the other room.

With a muttered exclamation, Dick followed to the doorway. A section of the paneling in the inner room had been removed and replaced with raw, newly carved wood. Frankie was taping sheets of masking paper around it, with his cans of stain and shellac, his brushes and spray gun neatly laid out around him. His coverall was definitely yellow, an unequivocal, almost offensive yellow, and it was a different garment entirely from the blue one he had worn a moment ago.

Ruell was at his elbow, looking amused. Remembering the exchange at the door, Dick said, "There are two of them -- is that it? Are they twins?"

Ruell went off into one of his choked explosions of laughter. "Are there two!" he repeated. "Twins!"

Frankie looked around -- if it was Frankie -- with his grin broadening. "Don't you feel bad, Misser Jones," he said. "We surprise mos' people, don't we, Misser Ruell?"

Ruell's laughter was trailing off into a series of little sighs, Ahuh. Ahuh! Finished with these, he asked solemnly, "Exactly how many are there of you at the present moment, Frankie?"

Frankie's expression grew equally serious. "This morning," he said, "they was two hun'red forty-three of me exackly. You know las' month they was only two hun'red twelve, the mos', but this month we doing so much work to build up the Long Corridor where it fell down, they need us bad. We the bes' servan' in Eagles, Misser Ruell. Nex' nearest is Hank the carrier, and I think they only a hun'red, a hun'red ten of him. Well, Misser Jones, you never see a fellow so many, eh?" He laughed with pleasure.

They turned away. "There used to be some fabulous number of him," Ruell said, "I don't recall, three hundred fifty or so, and Frankie's one ambition is to beat his own record. He counts himself every morning, and if he's lost any, he goes around with a long face for the rest of the day. Is anything the matter?"

"It doesn't seem sensible," said Dick. He started to sit, then, remembering that he was technically at home, offered Ruell a chair first. "How do you tell which one you've sent on an errand? Or suppose you want one of them to remember something for you, how do you find him again?"

"Oh, Frankie tells himself everything," said Ruell, sitting gracefully upright, legs crossed, hand on his stick. "That's why he's so useful -- he knows everything, goes everywhere; besides which, if you have a useful servant, why experiment?"

It was the fifth or sixth time he had heard the word "servant" that day. "Don't you call them slobs here?" he demanded irritably. "Or even slaves?"

Ruell shrugged. "My dear boy -- " His ironic glance sharpened. "Let me see now. You ride well, your small-arms shooting is just fair, your swagger-stick work is quite good, as you have demonstrated; with coaching, you might become exceptional. You swim, no doubt, dance, I suppose; know nothing, want to know nothing ... " Dick stood up.

"Don't lose your temper," said Ruell evenly. "It's your worst fault, except for ignorance: sit down, I have something to tell you. I say, sit down."

For some reason, Dick sat. "You are of a prime age," Ruell went on in the same tone, "strong, well set up and not bad looking. Above all, you are a new face. I think that will be our best line of attack."

"I don't understand you," said Dick.

"Don't you? Let me put it this way. At Eagles, everything is power; orbits and spheres of power, tides of power. As you have none yourself, you must have a protector: the question is, which? Now, nothing is ever given for nothing, at Eagles; what have you to offer? Let's see; no particular talents nor skills, no connections at Eagles except myself -- and nothing to expect from me but good advice, incidentally -- no supporters, no special information, in short, nothing but your person. Now let me think." He paused, two curved fingers at his chin. "If only you had let Keel drown, there would have been an opening. Keel is Randolph's boy, and you could hardly ask for anything better than that; Randolph is the Boss's secretary of entertainment. Very nice; it's too bad. However -- " he scanned Dick's face more closely -- "I don't believe you're the type; curious, I had rather expected ... Well, that leaves us just one alternative." He sat back. "We shall have to make a ladies' man of you. It's a shorter career as a rule, and a chancier one -- the dear ladies are capricious -- but we'll see what we can do. I'll introduce you to one or two of them; I assure you, some of them are not bad-looking at all; and if nothing happens, or if it doesn't last, well, we'll try again."

Dick had a baffled feeling that anger would be out of place; he felt half disgusted, half incredulous.

"Are you serious?"

Ruell's eyes narrowed slightly; he frowned, and did not answer.

Dick stood up. "Ruell, I listened to you because, well, my father mentioned your name -- "

"Yes?"

" -- but there's a limit to that. I don't like you, and I don't want your advice. So you can get out."

Ruell stood up slowly. His paper-gray face was shut and still. Dick felt his heartbeat accelerate. Ruell's thin hand, on the knob of his stick, tightened and relaxed. "For the 'sake of your father," he said, "I'll let this pass -- just this once. You are a very foolish young man; you had better learn wisdom, and learn it soon." At the door, he turned briefly. "Au revoir."

Dick let out the breath he had been holding, and sank down in the chair. He felt suddenly tired again; his head was beginning to ache and his eyes burned.

Duped slobs, and hand-carved paneling that had to be finished on the spot. Lampreys in the fountain; what had Ruell meant by that sentence in French, 'The more it changes, the more it's the same thing'? The horrifying implications of the things Ruell had said so calmly, sitting there across the room: "protectors"; "Randolph's boy"; "ladies' man." What if it were all true?

But there: it couldn't be.