A Wizard In Absentia

CHAPTER 4

Magnus hadn’t intended to risk upsetting his great-uncle, but when the Count heard that he had asked for a “family conference,” the old man had insisted it be held in his bedchamber. Now Magnus sat looking about at them all, choosing his words very carefully, not wishing to hurt any of them—he should really have been feeling sorry for each one. But the feeling of outrage was still there, though firmly held down, and he couldn’t completely keep his emotions out of the affair.

“Well, what is this all about then?” the old Count demanded. He stirred restlessly in his bed. “Say your piece, young man. What is it that is so important that you wish to address it to us all together?”

“Why, Uncle,” Magnus said slowly, “what should it be but my thanks for your hospitality, and a farewell?”

There was instant consternation, and Magnus found it very satisfying.

“No, not so soon!”

“You mustn’t, young man!”

“Come now, after all these years? Surely you have a duty to your family!”

Magnus rode it out, permitting himself to feel a very solid satisfaction—which was somewhat tempered by the glow of hope and delight he saw in Robert’s face, and the relief in the Count and Countess.

Pelisse, though, was completely taken aback, even appalled. “So soon? And so suddenly? But Magnus, this is really too bad of you!”

“My apologies.” Magnus inclined his head. “I would not have been so abrupt, or so dramatic, if recent events had not made my departure a matter of some urgency.”

“Recent events?” Countess Matilda frowned. “Of what sort?”

But Pelisse had a look of foreboding for a few seconds, before she regained her composure. “Yes, Magnus. What events could you be thinking of?”

“Not events alone,” Magnus said slowly, “but new information, too. I have become aware that you may be having a difficulty with the succession.”

Instantly, the guards were up, the faces wore bland smiles, and the family had rushed to battle stations. “However,” Magnus said, “it really is not politic to discuss this in the presence of the current Count.”

“No, no! Absolutely necessary, absolutely!” The Count waved the objection away—but anxiety shadowed his features. “How can I rest easily if there’s a chance I’ll leave the family in the lurch, eh? What sort of problem are you thinking of, young man? What difficulty with the succession?”

“My place in it, primarily,” Magnus said slowly. “I have become aware that you all believe I may attempt to inherit, when … the time comes.”

They should have raised a chorus of protest, they should have claimed that such a thought could not have been further from their minds—but they were silent, Pelisse wide-eyed, Robert infuriated, the Countess frightened, and the Count grave.

“The notion is ridiculous, of course,” Magnus said, “or should be—but I have slowly become aware that all of you fear I may have come to Maxima for that purpose.”

“Why ridiculous?” the Countess said, through tight lips.

“Why, because, on my home so far away, only the most general news of Terra and its colonies has come to us—and nothing from the family, though my father mentioned from time to time that he had attempted to send word to you…” “We received the occasional missive,” the Count acknowledged, “but we had no means of replying.” Magnus reflected that they could not have tried terribly hard. “Exactly—we were isolated from you. I grew up in the assumption that Maxima was the family home, but of no other interest to me, for my father’s uncle was the current Count, and his son would inherit in his turn. I never dreamed that the title might pass to the cadet branch—though I knew that if it did, my uncle would inherit, not my father…”

“But you had no way of knowing that he would be non compos mentis.” The Count scowled, nodding. “Indeed,” Magnus acknowledged. “Of course, if matters came to such a pass, it would be my father who would inherit, not I—but as you all know, he has won a title and lands of his own, and would certainly relinquish all claims to the inheritance.”

“You, however, are available.” Robert’s eyes smoldered.

“I did not quite realize that, until yesterday,” Magnus said. “It explained many things—Robert’s hostility, the Countess’s reticence, perhaps even Pelisse’s attentions.”

“You lie!” Robert leaped to his feet, face red, fists clenched.

“Really, young man!” the Countess snapped. “Magnus!” Pelisse cried, then faltered and looked away.

Magnus held up both palms. “My apologies; I did not mean to offend. But you must understand that I grew up on the fringes of court intrigue, so it is natural to me to question every attention, even the kindnesses that Cousin Pelisse has shown me. She is truly a gentle and open-hearted woman—but a man with a suspicious mind might note that she is the current heir and that, since she is female and the succession is patrilineal, she would only inherit if there were no male to claim the title—so that my claim might be construed as being as strong as hers.”

He waited for a response, but no one spoke. Eyes were wide and faces pale, but lips were sealed. Grimly reassured, Magnus went on, “So suspicious a person might have noted that the logical way to remove the conflict was to unite the claimants—and that Pelisse might therefore have been instructed to cultivate my affections.”

He expected a hot and outraged denial from the Countess and from Pelisse—but Matilda only looked away, her face pale, and Pelisse kept her gaze on the floor.

The Count glanced from one to the other with a scowl. So, then, he had not been in on it. He turned to Magnus, starting to speak—but, afraid it might be an apology, Magnus beat him to it. “Quite ridiculous, I know, and really showing only my own conceit—after all, though I would not say I was handsome, I flatter myself that being tall, muscular, and having a certain amount of presence, might make me not altogether unappealing. But, as I say, this shows only my own arrogance…”

“Indeed,” Robert muttered.

“…and after all,” Magnus went on, “so beautiful a lady as Pelisse certainly could not be in love with me. Could you, Pelisse?”

“No,” Pelisse admitted, though she almost strangled on the word.

Pain stabbed Magnus, even though he had already guessed the truth of it. But he kept his face grave and nodded. “No, of course not. I must ask your forgiveness, fair cousin, for having presumed to fantasize as much—but you are fair, after all, so I think I might be forgiven for a masculine weakness.”

“Of course,” Pelisse said, managing to raise a haunted gaze to him.

Robert stood silent and trembling, fists clenched, glaring hatred at Magnus.

Magnus took it as tribute and fed his confidence off the other man’s dislike. “Yes, quite ridiculous, all of it—beginning with the notion that I might wish to inherit.”

Instant consternation. All the minor relatives were talking at once; the Countess and Pelisse stared at him with huge, disbelieving eyes; and Robert’s jaw dropped.

“Come, now!” The Count raised a hand and waited till the tumult stilled, locking gazes with Magnus. When the room was still, he said, “Not wish to inherit? Turn your back on a billion-a-year business? Wealth and power, and a title with it? How could you not wish to inherit?”

Angered though he was, Magnus wasn’t quite vicious enough to tell the old man that he was no more interested in life imprisonment on a twenty-mile asteroid than the Count’s own son had been. “Worldly considerations aside, sir, there is the matter of qualification for the position. I know little about robotics and nothing of modern industry; I haven’t the slightest idea how to manage even one factory, let alone a whole complex. If I were to become Count, it would certainly be disastrous for d’Armand Automatons—and the good of the family is, after all, paramount.” He thought he had done that rather neatly.

But the Count waved these objections away. “You could learn, young man—and while you did, you would have excellent advisors. Have wealth and luxury no appeal to you?”

“No more than to any man.” Magnus chose his words carefully. “But I have another title waiting for me on my homeworld, and estates and wealth with it.” He didn’t bother saying that Rod’s title was probably not hereditary—he was sure the lands were. Never mind that he would be expected to share them with his siblings—he wasn’t all that sure that he wanted to inherit on Gramarye, either. “But I wish to see something more of the universe before I tie myself down to one place. I do not yet wish to rest.”

“You will, though,” his great-uncle protested. “When you’re tired of rambling, you will. And you’ll have become addicted to the pleasures of the modern world. What of the inheritance then, eh?”

Even now too polite to say that a mere asteroid would be too small for him, Magnus assured him, “I would find a way to carve out a niche for myself, as my father has done.”

“Quite sure of that, are you?” The Count looked doubtful, and he wasn’t the only one.

“Quite,” Magnus confirmed. “In fact, I am so sure, that I will sign any documents you wish, relinquishing my claim to the title and the company.”

Everyone burst into disbelieving but delighted exclamations—except for the old Count. He kept his gaze on Magnus and rode out the hubbub. When it slackened, he raised a hand again, and gradually, the room stilled. “But what of your father?” the old man said then. “What of my nephew, eh? After all, he has the strongest claim of all. What assurance do we have that he will not show up seeking the title, eh?”

Magnus just barely managed to choke back a bark of laughter. The High Warlock of Gramarye, give up his castle and estates, his title and his world, for nothing but a tastelessly opulent mansion on an airless asteroid, where the use of the psionic powers he had discovered would have to be exercised so discreetly as to be virtually undetectable? Give up a world for this?

He didn’t say that, of course. Gravely, he answered, “I cannot speak for my father; however, I very much doubt that Rod Gal—Rodney d’Armand will wish to give up his life’s work and his world, to take over the family business. I do suspect that he will probably wish to see you again, sir, and his brother, no matter Uncle Richard’s condition—but that he will not wish to stay. Assuming he can arrange transportation, that is.”

“Transportation?” The Count frowned. “How could he not? He had to have a ship to get where he is in the first place, didn’t he?”

Magnus felt a stab of guilt. “He did, sir, but he gave it to me, for my travels.”

“You mean he’s trapped there?” The Count shook his head, muttering—but Magnus saw the flare of hope in Matilda’s eyes. “We can’t have that!” the old man said. “Have to find a way to send him a ship, yes. After all, he is family.”

“I will send an inquiry, sir,” Magnus said politely, “and ask him for a formal abdication of rights to the claim—though I doubt that my father will be able to receive it”—again, the stab of guilt “without his ship, and its guiding robot.”

“But I do not wish to inherit!” Pelisse cried, then lowered her eyes instantly.

“Pelisse!” her grandmother gasped, scandalized. Again, the Count held up a hand for silence. “What’s this, Granddaughter? Not wish to inherit! But why?”

“Why, because I don’t know enough,” Pelisse sobbed. “I don’t, Grandmother! I’ve studied, I’ve learned as much as I can, I could design and build a robot from scratch, I know all the principles of management—but I’m frightened! I can’t bear the thought of having to manage the company on my own, the thought of all the members of the family who might suffer if I make too many mistakes!” She looked up at Matilda through her tears. “Can’t you understand that?”

Matilda stood rigid—then, unexpectedly, thawed. She came over to her grandchild and put an arm around her shoulders. “Of course, dear, I understand—far better than you can know, in fact. But we must do what we’re given to do—must do as well as we can, and hope, darling, only hope.”

“You will not want for good advice,” the Count muttered.

“But it is I who will have to decide!” Pelisse wailed.

“You have said yourself that you have the knowledge.” Magnus frowned. “It is support you need, not advice—emotional support, the knowledge that there is someone there to depend on, if you fail.”

“Of course!” Pelisse turned a tear-streaked face to him. “Now do you understand?”

“Quite well.” Magnus held himself still against a surge of anger, then turned to nod toward his rival. “But you will pardon me for suggesting that your cousin Robert might be willing to be the staff upon which you might lean. His knowledge of these affairs is certainly far greater than mine—and, unless I quite mistake him, he would be very willing indeed.”

Now it was Pelisse who froze.

Matilda lifted her gaze slowly, seeking out Robert. He braced himself visibly, and bore up under her scrutiny.

“So that is the way of it,” Matilda murmured. “All the time, and right beneath my nose, too. Really, child, you might have told me.”

“But you don’t approve of Robert,” Pelisse mumbled.

“As a liaison? Certainly not; he’s far too wild. But as a husband? Well, when he has settled down—who can tell? I’ll have to consider the matter—carefully.”

The Count turned a frosty glance on his kinsman. “I think you had better be done sowing your wild oats, young man, and very quickly, too.”

“Yes, sir,” Robert said meekly.

“I might also suggest,” said Magnus, “that your uncle the professor might find it possible, perhaps even desirable, to return to Maxima during the summers, when he is not preoccupied with teaching. What is his field?”

“Why, robotics, of course,” said the Count, frowning.

Magnus restrained an urge to shout at him, and only smiled. “How perfect! Has he never asked d’Armand Automatons to test new ideas for him?”

“Well, the occasional notion…”

“He really should have you manufacture all his pilot models. After all, family is family. And I think you might find that he would be available for consultation even during his teaching terms, if his share of the family inheritance were contingent on his assistance. I was under the impression that consultancies enhanced a professor’s prestige.”

“What an excellent idea!” The Count stared. “Really, young man, you might find you have a gift for this sort of thing, after all.”

“No, Great-uncle—only for intrigue. Which, as I’ve told you, permeated the very air I breathed as an infant.” Magnus didn’t mind the occasional exaggeration.

But Matilda frowned. “You don’t know the professor as we do, young man. I doubt that he would be willing to return to Maxima even for three months at a time.”

Somehow, Magnus found he could believe that. “Must be a way.” The Count scowled. “After all, family is paramount, eh?”

Magnus pursed his lips. “Perhaps I might talk to my academic cousin?”

“Well-I suppose you might, if you were willing to go to Terra.”

“Has he no hyper-phone?”

“Of course—but do you really think it will do any good?”

“There is a possibility,” Magnus said.

Magnus adjourned with Matilda to the communications center of the household. Magnus, Fess’s voice said in his mind, I hope you are not planning anything unethical.

Is persuasion unethical? Magnus returned.

It can be ethical or unethical, depending on your methods.

Then observe my methods, and judge them when I am done, Magnus thought curtly. He didn’t need his resident daemon to tell him that what he was contemplating was not completely proper. He sat with the Countess in the household’s communication center. He glanced at the range of clocks above the communicator screen and noted the time in Boston, on the continent of North America. Eight o’clock in the evening—an excellent time for a family call. He glanced up at the Countess. “Will the connection be long in coming?”

“Not terribly,” Matilda answered, just as the glow of the screen broke into snow, then cleared as a pastel flower blossomed from the center outwards. Words came from the flower’s center, swelling to fill the screen. You have connected with 27-14-30-260-339977AZ.

Aunt Matilda nodded. “It is Roger’s address.” Magnus frowned. “Why does he not identify himself by name?”

Matilda glanced at him with amusement and, yes, condescension, no matter how slight. “To guard against theft.” She turned back to the screen, unaware that she had left Magnus wondering how a mere display of digits could be a charm against burglary. “Please inform Professor d’Armand that his stepmother is calling.”

Stepmother? Magnus concealed his surprise. Matilda was the Count’s second wife, then. He wondered how that affected the succession.

The display remained constant, but the music modulated into the word, “Affirmative.”

“Showy,” Matilda muttered, “but cheap.” Magnus didn’t understand a bit of it, so he kept his face impassive.

Then the flower faded from the screen, revealing the face of a middle-aged man, which hit Magnus with a shock. The second wife must have been a good twenty years younger than the first. He had thought it was illness that had made the Count look twenty years older than his wife, but now he realized it was simply time.

The professor had a long, pallid face, and a guarded manner. The resemblance to the Count was unmistakable. “Matilda! What a pleasant surprise!”

“And a pleasure to see you, Roger.” There was real warmth under the Countess’s reserve. “And let me relieve your mind before we go any further-your father is no worse, if no better.”

“Glad to hear the former, and sorry to hear the latter.” Roger glanced toward Magnus. “Would I be right to infer that this young man is therefore the reason for your expending so much money for this call?”

“He is my excuse,” Matilda admitted. “Roger, meet your Cousin Magnus—Rodney’s son.”

“Rodney! Then he still lives?” The professor turned to Magnus with a quickening of interest. “We had feared that he must have fallen prey to the hazards of his profession—a secret agent’s life, and all that. Is your father well, young man?”

“Yes, quite well.” Magnus hid the shock of hearing his father described as a secret agent—but of course, that was what he was, though it was no longer his primary occupation. “I bring his greetings to all the family—but I must convey them to you in this fashion, since I do not expect to visit Terra.” That wasn’t quite true, but he was resolved to come nowhere near anyone else bearing the name “d’Armand.”

“I regret to hear it.” The professor frowned. “You would enjoy Cambridge-it’s something of an oasis amidst the desert of the modern world.”

“Is it really? I’m afraid I know so little of Terra.” Even as he spoke, Magnus’s mind was reaching out, following the tachyon beam inward past Mars’ orbit, past Luna, seeking the mind so distant in the connection. He needed a bit more talk to have the feel of that mind, the signature, the insubstantial air that would make it distinct from all the other minds on Earth. “I gather that Cambridge is a city restricted to the pursuit of knowledge?”

“You might say that.” The professor smiled. “Though so many of our research institutions are allied with commerce now, that we might more accurately say that Cambridge is devoted to the business of knowledge.”

“What is the appearance of the town?”

“A strange wording; I gather that your native idiom differs from my own.” The professor gave him a keen look. “Well, young man, we specialize in old buildings and new postures, if that means anything to you.”

It meant more than he knew; Magnus had singled his mind out of the throng, and was letting his own consciousness filter through that of his cousin, feather-light, insubstantial, but gradually perceiving the world as the professor perceived it, soaking up his thoughts and memories. “My own world reveres the antique, Professor.” That was putting it mildly—the whole culture had been modeled on an idealized view of the European Middle Ages. “It is an attitude with which I can sympathize.”

“Then you must come to Cambridge and discover it for yourself.” The professor smiled again, still very much on his guard. “But surely you have not taken the time to contact me simply for a description of my city, young man.”

“No, but I have wished to meet you, and a discussion of the town in which you live gives me an additional sense of your personality,” Magnus answered. “I am embarked on a voyage of self-discovery, you see, and I have begun it by seeking out my roots, attempting to learn something of my father’s people.”

“It is a process with which every professor is familiar—he is exposed to it so constantly.” Roger’s features softened, his guard lowering as he gained confidence and a sense of superiority over his young caller. “What have you learned thus far?”

“That family is extremely important to all my relatives,” Magnus returned, “frequently more important than their own welfare.”

The professor frowned, not liking this view of the topic. “And do you find this attitude healthy?”

“It is certainly to the benefit of the family,” Magnus returned, “and each individual’s welfare seems to depend on that of the family. All in all, I find it conducive to the welfare of the individuals involved, yes.”

“But don’t you also find it somewhat restrictive?” There was an undertone of the defensive there—Magnus pursued, and found the guilt from which it stemmed. As he talked, his mind softened the edge of that emotion, mellowing it into a feeling of obligation. “Quite restrictive, since I was born and raised on a planet not much smaller than Terra. When you have had a whole world to wander, or at least a very large island, you come to miss the outdoors.”

Matilda looked up indignantly.

“I came to miss it before I had experienced it,” Roger said, with a smile.

“Young men are always restless,” the Countess said crisply, “and long to explore new environments. Isn’t that so, Magnus?”

“I live in witness to it.” Magnus allowed himself a slight smile, but his mind was sifting through the memories that the conversation brought up in Roger’s mind. “I cannot help but wonder what attractions there must be on your overcrowded Terra, to make you wish to stay there.”

The question brought a flood of emotions and memories, though the professor maintained a bland smile. Magnus probed delicately, following linkages of associations down to underlying attitudes. He worked very carefully; this wasn’t really his gift, but he had witnessed his mother and sister doing it, and had even been on the receiving end once or twice, when he was sunk in apathy. Yes, the professor’s dislike of Maxima was superficially due to a natural youthful wanderlust, but it endured for a deeper reason—what Magnus could only think of as an emotional claustrophobia, a feeling of suffocation under the presence and chatter of too many people in too small a space. Magnus examined more closely, and found memories of never-ending demands from the Countess, the Count, and a score of other relatives. Roger had been the one on whom everyone else had loaded the responsibility of recommending what to do with Uncle Richard; he had been the one who had had to support his father through the decline and death of his first wife. As one of the few really stable people in the family, he had always been the object of the others’ emotional demands, had been the one who kept the rest of them functioning—and this before he was out of his teens! Magnus sympathized; in two short weeks, he had already begun to feel the attachment of those emotional tendrils, the conflicting pulls of several people at once. Nonetheless, family came first—and if Cousin Roger wanted the financial benefits of d’Armand Automatons, he would have to shoulder some of the responsibility.

The professor was answering. “Cambridge is kept free of overcrowding, young man, except on football Saturdays. And there is a feeling of freedom, of spaciousness, that no space habitat can match.”

“I concur,” Magnus said. “But surely the demands of others are present in any social environment.”

“Yes, but they maintain a certain degree of reserve in an academic setting,” the professor began, and was off into paeans of praise for the fellowship of scholars. Beneath his words, Magnus read a dread of intimate relationships, for his familial life had been so stifling that he had not married even once, and had certainly taken pains to be sure he fathered no children. His relationships with women were fleeting, and the only intimacy was that of the body. Magnus felt a surge of empathy, recognizing a maimed soul when he saw one, and identifying with it with such intensity that it shocked him. But battle-trained reflexes took over; he pushed his own emotions to the background while he worked within his cousin’s mind, inputting reassurance that the other members of the family had adjusted to his absence and had found their own sources of security without him.

Roger had finished with a description of the pleasures of sitting in the sun on an autumn morning, discussing superconductor theory with his colleagues. Magnus noted the falling inflection and murmured, “Such a web of relationships must be very pleasant, with no one pressing you for involvement.”

“Yes, quite.” But the professor frowned suddenly, as though a puzzle in the back of his mind had just been solved. “Rodney’s son—then your claim to the succession is as valid as my cousin Pelisse’s!”

“True,” Magnus acknowledged, “but her claim is also as valid as mine, and she has the advantage of knowing the situation—and the greater advantage of wanting to stay on Maxima for most of her life.”

“I see.” Roger smiled, amused. “You are no more enamored of life on an asteroid than I, eh?” Or of refereeing a convention of madmen, his mind said silently.

Magnus commiserated, and made sure the older man felt the surge of emotion. “The problem is that Pelisse does not wish the authority.”

“Oh, she will grow into it, by the time she has to assume the responsibility,” Roger said breezily. But Matilda contradicted him, rather severely. “That moment could come tomorrow, Roger, or even tonight.”

“Or not for five years, or ten,” Roger retorted, all his emotional shields up and vibrating. “Father has excellent medical care, Matilda, and you have informed me that his mind is as sharp as ever. You will pardon me if I do not show undue concern.”

Matilda reddened, but Magnus said smoothly, “It is your due concern that is perhaps appropriate.”

“Indeed.” Roger turned to him angrily. “And what concern do you think is due, young man?” His tone said: interloper.

“That of an advisor.” Magnus worked at keeping his posture loose, not letting the tension show. “After all, you have a vested interest in d’Armand Automatons, as well as an academic one, do you not?”

“Academic?” Roger frowned. “The family business is just that, young man—they apply proven principles in building their robots; they don’t experiment.”

Magnus looked up at Matilda in surprise that was only partly feigned. “You don’t have a research and development department?”

“Well, of course,” Matilda said, nettled. “They are constantly searching for new ways to apply established knowledge.”

“But not to discover new principles themselves.” Roger smiled vindictively. “After all, there’s just so much that artificial intelligence can do, and creative thought is really beyond a cybernetic ‘brain.’ ”

“Which means that it is for you to do the primary research,” Magnus interpreted. “Surely you could see that the family has the benefit of that.”

“And the rest of the world! I publish my results, young man!”

“As is only appropriate,” Magnus said smoothly. “Still, you must verify your results repeatedly before you publish, must you not?”

“Yes.” Roger frowned, not seeing Magnus’s point. “And if d’Armand Automatons had performed those experiments for you, they would be in a position to investigate applications much more quickly than the rest of the industry.”

Roger looked off into space, mulling the thought.

“There’s some point in that—but Father has never shown any interest in participating in my work.” Beneath his words, Magnus caught vivid, fleeting images of loud and angry arguments, of a father’s chilly silence at what he perceived as his son’s abandonment and rejection.

“Have you ever asked?” Magnus said quietly.

“He has not,” Matilda said, while Roger was still opening his mouth. “I confess that the idea is attractive—but such experiments would require your physical presence now and again, Roger.”

Alarm flared, and Magnus was quickly calming it with the revelation that three months would never be time for entangling relationships to form again. “I assume that if d’Armand Automatons were to use your discoveries, you would expect some form of royalties.”

“Of course!”

“But you receive shares in the family business already, Roger,” Matilda reminded him. “Your stock in the company has never been alienated.”

Roger turned frosty. “I have never used the proceeds from that stock, Matilda, not since I came to Terra and used some of the dividends to establish myself. They have sat and grown, increasing in number and value.”

“Yes, I know—I do look at the books occasionally,” Matilda returned tartly.

“It would seem to me,” Magnus murmured, “that if you accept the family’s share, you have some responsibility toward them.” This time, the surge of guilt the professor felt was purely Magnus’s doing.

But feel it he did, enough to frown and look more closely at Magnus. “You have some specific proposal in mind, young man.”

“I do,” Magnus admitted. “It is simply as I’ve suggested—that you spend your summers on Maxima, advising the heir on business matters and testing your new hypotheses.” He was ready for the surge of alarm, of defensive distancing, and lulled it, soothed it, worked in the thought, again, that three months was too short a time to become enmeshed in a circle of endless demands.

The professor’s face had turned stony, but was softening already into a thoughtful frown.

“Of course,” Magnus said quietly, “during the rest of the year, you would be available for consultation by hyperadio, as you are now.”

“The notion has merit,” the professor said slowly. “Of course, for such services, I would expect a greater number of shares in d’Armand Automatons.”

It was quite a change for a man who had virtually said he didn’t really care about the money—but Magnus noted the undercurrent of emotion that confirmed his disregard for the family fortune. Above it rode the thought that, by putting matters on a business footing, he would be shielded from personal demands.

Magnus did not disabuse him of the notion; he merely said to the Countess, “That would seem appropriate.”

“Quite.” She was poised, but there was anticipation in her eyes. “Surely we need not wait for your father’s death in order to see you again, Roger.”

“Not at all, Matilda—you are perfectly free to meet me here in Cambridge at any time; you know you will be welcome,” the professor assured her. “As to this summer—well, I am committed to a graduate seminar, but perhaps I could visit during the short vacation in August.”

“That would be delightful,” the Countess said. The slightest of smiles showed at the corners of her lips.

“I shall have to discuss it with my chairman, of course,” Roger said carefully, “but there is at least the possibility.”

Magnus noted that neither of them had said anything specific about how much stock the professor could look forward to receiving. It really didn’t matter to them, after all.

And when the closing amenities had been exchanged and the professor’s image had disappeared from above the black square, Matilda turned to Magnus, her face suffused with joy. “However did you manage that, young man?”

Magnus decided that she didn’t really want to know.

I have observed, Magnus, Fess’s voice said. Are you certain your action was ethical?

Resolving a family dispute, and reconciling a stepmother and stepson? Setting a man on the road to freeing himself from the fear of intimacy that has stunted his personal growth all his adult life? Certainly an ethical deed, Fess!

About the means, though, Magnus wasn’t quite so certain. He had given his cousin emotional assurances that he wasn’t sure were true. Moreover, he had altered the thoughts and emotions of a man who was not an enemy, without his knowledge or consent—and that definitely was unethical, so he did feel rather guilty. Not too much so, though—he had adjusted a neurosis, and had left the man better than he had found him. Besides, he could always plead necessity.

Then too, Roger had been evading his responsibility—and family was family.

“It was amazing!” Countess Matilda was flushed with excitement, sitting by the Count’s bed and talking to the whole family. “Nephew Magnus spoke very quietly and reasonably, even sympathetically—and Roger saw his point at once!”

Pelisse stared. “You mean he didn’t lose his temper?”

The Countess colored. “No, and I did not even have to speak sharply with him! Really, your Cousin Magnus is most persuasive!”

“It is primarily a matter of seeing an equitable solution that is beneficial to all parties.” Magnus felt rather uncomfortable under such effusive praise, especially since he knew just how he had done what he had done. “And, of course, such a solution is more easily seen by one who is external to the situation.”

“But I hope you will not feel that you are outside the family!” Pelisse turned a beaming face upon him—and Magnus felt a surge of the selfsame alarm he had felt in Cousin Roger. The tendrils of demand were already reaching out for him, with no compensating benefits. “I will, of course, delight in my name, and my background,” he lied. “I am honored to have helped in resolving your problems with the succession—and to know that you can manage quite well without me.”

A look of triumph lit Robert’s face, but Pelisse was startled, and the Countess was suddenly pensive. “Surely you do not intend to leave us so soon, young man!”

“I fear I must.” Magnus inclined his head politely. “I have limited time to learn of my background, and have many more courses to run. For example, I believe I will accept Cousin Roger’s invitation, so that I may see something of Terra, the source of us all.”

“Laudable.” The Countess couldn’t really object, if he was visiting family—and reinforcing the miracle he had just worked on Roger. “Surely you will visit us soon after, though?”

“I look forward to the event,” Magnus assured her. Indeed, he could look forward to it so well that he didn’t intend to let it happen. “Since I must depart today, I am glad to have been of some slight service to you.”

“Today!” Pelisse cried; and, “No, really!” the Countess said.

But the Count nodded gravely, and only said, “You must allow us to express our gratitude in some way, young man.”

“I have scarcely made a fitting return to your hospitality,” Magnus objected.

A trace of guilt flitted across Matilda’s face, and Pelisse lowered her eyes; they were shamed, for they knew just how insincere their hospitality had been. So did the Count. “You must, at least, have some token from the family, some talisman that will remind you of your roots, and of our gratitude!” He turned to his wife. “My dear, see that the young man is given one of our latest TLC robots, with a selection of bodies and a yacht to house them.”

Matilda nodded, but Magnus stared in alarm, feeling the shadow of obligation. “Surely that is far too generous, Uncle!”

“You underestimate the service you have done us,” the Count said, but Magnus could not help feeling the emotion that fairly blasted from the man—his shame and embarrassment, for he knew very well how they had sought to exploit their guest.

Magnus realized that if he did not accept the gift, they would find ways to keep after him, insisting on expiating their guilt—but if he accepted this token, they would be able to relax and forget him.

“Besides,” the Count said, “you have told us that you have old Fess and your father’s ship, which leaves him devoid of transportation, should he wish to visit us—and even devoid of communication! No, no, we must be able to congratulate him on his hard-won rank, and to thank him for your visit! You really must accept a robot of your own, Nephew!”

Magnus stilled. It was an alluring prospect, having a robot that had not served five hundred years of his ancestors before him—having a companion that he had won himself, no matter how badly overpaid he might be.

And after all, what else did the d’Armands have to offer that was really of them?

Magnus, Fess’s voice said, your father has given me to you, and made you my owner.

But there is merit in what he says, Magnus thought back, and I would feel forever guilty if I deprived Father of you for the rest of his life—especially when an alternative is available.

He was rather hurt that Fess didn’t try to argue him out of it.