The Warlock's Grandfather

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 about 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?”

“At least I’m doing something beneficial here.”

“Oh, darling, you so undervalue your own accomplishments!” Rose sat down on the bed beside him. “You have three patents in your own name, Robin, and the firm is making a very handsome income from two of them!”

“Yes, and we could do quite well with the third.” Robin smiled ruefully. “Too bad Pater chose to refuse it; Msimangu Mannikins is doing great business with it.”

“Yes, and your father was quite right—clothing design is not what d’Armand Automatons is known for. Please don’t object, darling—I do like some royalties, in our own name.” Rose didn’t count her own inheritance, or her copyrights.

Robin frowned. “You don’t suppose Pater did it deliberately, do you?”

Rose smiled, amused. “I’m sure he had excellent business reasons, my dear.”

“Which means he was quite aware of the leg-up he was giving me,” Robin sighed.

“Or of allowing you to gain the repute you had earned,” Rose corrected, “before he turned the reins over to Rupert.”

Robin smiled, taking her hand. “That’s true, isn’t it? Rupert can’t very well show much interest in any of my designs following in that vein now, can he?”

“Not really. Your father has cleared the way for you to make your own name, my dear. We really have so much to thank him for—and he is so little trouble to put up with, that I really feel I should be doing more for him!”

“Well, you do keep Elaine from worrying.”

“No I don’t, though I try. At least I can reassure her and allay her concerns as soon as they arise.” Rose shook her head. “Why can’t the woman see how much she owes to him?”

“I rather think she believes we should be grateful to her, for condescending to join the family.”

Rose’s mouth tightened, but she didn’t quite say it.

“I can see the strain that it puts on you, though,” Robin sighed, “especially since little Rollo has started trying to lord it over our boys.”

Rose managed a wan smile. “There isn’t much danger of that; they’re quick to put him in his place.”

“But then you have to deal with Elaine’s complaints.” Robin smiled sadly. “You do it so well, my dear!”

“But can I for much longer?” Rose sighed. “There’s bound to be an explosion between us, my dear—two women under one roof was never a sign of tranquility. I think it would have happened months ago, if we hadn’t all been distracted by your father’s…” Her eyes widened. “Oh, Robin! You don’t suppose the old dear did this for us, do you?”

Robin smiled fondly. “I don’t really, darling. Of course, with Pater, one never can tell.”

Rose sighed and shook her head. “Oh, if only we could just whisk him away to a house of our own! I know we could abide him easily enough, if we just didn’t have to be concerned about smoothing Rupert’s and Elaine’s feathers!”

“We have money enough, now,” Robin said, his gaze steady. “Say the word, and I’ll buy a plot and rent the robots to start building.”

“No, we couldn’t, I’m afraid,” Rose sighed. “Rupert and Elaine just wouldn’t understand, and they’d be far too hurt. Family should live in the same house, after all, especially when there are so few of us.”

“Traditions,” Robin sighed. “I begin to understand why Pater slipped his moorings.”

Rose stroked his hand, and hoped he wouldn’t come to understand too well.

“I do wish there were some way we could have avoided the ball this year, Elaine.” Rupert yanked his stock into an angry knot.

“My dear, the d’Armands have given a Christmas ball for three hundred twenty-two years,” Elaine answered, “and I will not let it be said that I was the hostess who broke that tradition.”

“Yes, I know,” Rupert sighed, “but this is such an inconvenient year.”

“Because of your father’s behavior, you mean? Why Rupert, what makes you think he’ll be any different next year?”

Rupert froze, staring in the mirror. “What a truly appalling notion!”

The Great Hall was decked in the symbols of the winter that never came to Maxima—frosted evergreens, holly and mistletoe, and plastic icicles. The happy throng of guests trooped in, Elaine and Rupert receiving them graciously with a little cheery chit-chat before they went on in to pick up an intoxicant from a passing robot.

“Whenever I envy them, I think of this.” Robin was watching from across the hall. “I would find it absolutely beastly to have to be so cheerily welcoming to people I can’t abide.”

“Yes, I know.” Rose’s face was haunted with longing. “But it would be so pleasant to be able to welcome friends into one’s own home.”

“True,” Robin admitted, “but would you really want to have to ‘welcome’ Dame Hithers?” He nodded at a skinny lady who was gliding across the floor with a hungry, malicious look about her.

“Perhaps, but I certainly would prefer not to speak with her if I can’t welcome her.” Rose turned away and began strolling toward the punch bowl. “Your father really should be in the receiving line, though.”

“He certainly has taken the slightest excuse to step out of it.” Robin smiled. “Still, he does seem to be doing his share to welcome the guests he likes.” He nodded toward the northwest corner, where Count Rory was chatting with a middle-aged matron.

Rose followed his nod—then stopped, staring. “Yes, he certainly is, though I think he may be going beyond mere welcome. A pinch on the cheek is one thing, but a hand on the shoulder is entirely another. We might wish to be closer, Robin.” She turned toward Rory.

As they came up, they heard Lady Copious tittering, “O, la, my lord! Certainly I am far too ample for such compliments!”

“Not a bit, milady, not a bit! Why, the more there is of a woman, the more there is to admire!”

“Admiration befits publicity.” Lady Copious deftly deflected a low hand. “But you have always been the soul of propriety, Count Rory.”

“Its letter, perhaps, milady, but never its soul…”

“Why, you have always been an example of propriety, Beau-Papa!” Rose burbled. “Surely you do not wish to retire from so illustrious a career?”

“Oh, do I not?” Rory turned to them with easy grace, withdrawing his hand. “Lady Copious, my son and daughter-in-law.”

“Charmed, my dear.” In fact, Lady Copious was looking both nettled and relieved. “Robin, I trust you will emulate your father?”

“I solemnly assure you.” Robin inclined his head. “I only flirt with my wife in private.”

Rose darted him a mock-venomed glance, but Lady Copious tittered. “So good of you! But I prefer my flirtations to be public. If you will excuse me, I’ll seek out my husband.” And she glided off before Rory could object.

“For shame, Beau-Papa!” But Rose couldn’t quite hide her smile. “Will no woman be safe from you?”

“Only insofar as she wishes to be.” Rory gave her a roguish glance out of the corner of his eye.

“Come, Pater!” Robin throttled a grin down to a smile. “Must I repeat all the rules of conduct you taught me?”

“Of course not, son—I don’t wish to examine you at the moment.” Rory tracked a new arrival, a gleam in his eye. “Lady Spriteleigh, however, is another matter. If you will excuse me?” And he sauntered away so quickly that they had no chance to protest.

“I fear no lady will be safe from him tonight.” Rose looked after him, worried.

“True, so long as she’s over forty and well-married.” Robin turned her toward the nearest champagne-bearing robot. “The old gentleman still has some notion of courtesy, after all—he’d never flirt with a lady who wouldn’t enjoy it.”

“True,” Rose sighed. “I shouldn’t worry. But Robin, what will happen if one of them flirts back?”

“That,” Robin admitted, “could prove difficult.”

They were right to worry. Rory was the life of the ball, though perhaps not in the best of fashions. In fact, he made quite a spectacle of himself, flirting with all the married ladies, and even going so far as to pat the bottoms of the serving-robots.

“How dare he!” Elaine’s face flamed scarlet. “In public!”

There was no point in telling her there was no harm in it; the harm, so far as she was concerned, was to herself.

“Fess is trying to moderate his behavior,” Robin pointed out.

“But he needn’t heed a robot, need he? Oh, Rupert, you must talk with him.”

“I suppose I must.” Rupert turned toward his father, visibly bracing himself for the task.

But Duchess Hidalgo reached Rory first. Unfortunately, she was in excellent voice. “My lord Count! How dare you commit such improprieties in front of us all!”

Rory turned to her with a wicked gleam. ” ‘In front’ is scarcely where I have been improper, Duchess.”

“Oh! And you boast of it! What has possessed you, Rory? You have always been such a gentleman!”

“Yes, and it’s been damned dull, if you really want to know.” Rory was getting louder, matching her decibel for decibel. “Come, Duchess! Surely you cannot object to a bit of life in our dotage!”

“Dotage! How dare you, sir! I’ll have you know I’m in the prime of my life!”

“Your ‘prime,’ Duchess, was—”

“Sir!” she bellowed, outshouting him. “Mind your manners! What a boor you’ve become! You are no longer fit company for any lady of…”

“Avaunt!” Rory staggered backward. “A rescue! The lady has transformed! She has become a fire-breathing dragon! Fess! My sword!”

“Dragon!” the Duchess howled. “How dare you so insult me, sir!”

But Robin, at least, realized it was no mere insult. He hurried forward as Rory managed to wrestle one of the prop swords down from the wall. It was only rolled iron, of course, and had no edge, but it could still do damage.

Robin got to the duchess first. He took her elbow and turned her away by main force, then slipped an arm around her waist and virtually hauled her away. “Come, Duchess, it’s time to dine! May I have the honor of bringing you in?”

Behind him, Fess had deftly caught the blade, and was saying, quite firmly, “No, boss milord master. It is not fitting for a knight to take up his own weapons when he is attended.”

“Was I attended? Did you give me my sword when I demanded it?”

“No, sahib, because you bade me leave it in your chamber. Do you not remember?”

“Oh.” Rory frowned. “Yes, I do recall you recommending something of the sort. But the dragon, Fess!”

“Certainly the lady cannot be blamed for the evil enchantment placed upon her, boss man.”

“True.” Rory’s grip on the sword slackened. “Her mother was something of a witch…”

Fortunately, the Duchess couldn’t hear the remark, mostly because she was herself making too much noise to hear it. “I shall not retreat from the field of battle!” she protested. “No matter how gallantly you attempt it, sir!”

“I must ask your indulgence,” Robin answered, puffing. “My father still suffers from his bereavement.”

The Duchess’s resistance lessened. “But it’s more than a year, now…”

“Some take longer to heal than others, Duchess, and my father was extremely attached to my mother.”

“You don’t have to tell me that!” the Duchess sniffed. After all, she had propositioned Rory three times down through the years, and he had never once shown the slightest inkling of infidelity.

Robin reflected that his father probably could have avoided the whole conflict if he had just flirted a bit with the Duchess, too. On the other hand, he might have had to do more than flirt. “But the dinner gong really is sounding, Duchess.” He gave the nearest robot a meaningful glare, and it flashed a radio message to the domo-bot, which promptly rolled over to strike the gong. “And I really do wish to take you in to dinner.”

“Well, if you insist,” the Duchess muttered, and began to move of her own accord, while Robin reflected that the sins of the fathers might not be visited upon the heads of the sons, but their penances certainly were.

But the climax of the evening came when Rory sat down next to Lady Prone against the wall in the ballroom, about two in the morning. Exactly what passed between them, nobody knew, but they could hear her gay peals of laughter, and could see his hand on her knee. Robin hurried toward them, and saw Baron Prone closing from another direction, but Rory was saying, “You cannot blame me, when you persist in being so tempting, Madame!”

“La, sir! I’m far too ripened for such talk, and I’ll never…”

“Never see twenty again? No you won’t, but you’ve come into your prime now, Veronica. Your hair is so rich an auburn, your lips as sweet as cherries! Your eyes are the night sky, and I wish to become your astronaut!”

“Oh, do you, sir?” Lady Prone swayed closer to him. “I have always preferred older men! Come, can your velocity match my ardor?”

But before the Count could start matching velocities, Robin came up, caroling, “Ah, Lady Prone! So there you are!”

The lady started, then glared up at him. “I am as I have always been, sir!”

“Indeed, and the very picture of loveliness…” Rory began, but Robin turned to him with a firm smile. “Pater, you have wronged your squire.”

Rory stiffened, glaring at him. “Wronged! Why, how say you, sirrah?”

“You have left him to the mercies of the maidservants, milord, and they are making sport of him.”

Fess had extremely good hearing. He ambled a few steps away to place himself strategically between two servitors.

“The devil you say!” Rory looked up, glaring, and saw the tableau. “Why, the shameless hussies! Know they not the obligations of chivalry?” Thus reminding himself, he turned back to Lady Prone. “Your pardon, milady, but duty calls.”

“What? Why…” But by the time the lady figured it out, Rory was already halfway across the room. She could only turn her indignation on Robin. “How rude of you to interfere, sir! You have spoiled the most delightful encounter I have had in years!”

“I am truly sorry, milady.” Robin bowed low. “But the obligations of propriety…”

“Obligations of nonsense! What was this fluff about ‘maidservants’?”

“It was, um, a sort of family code,” Robin improvised. Fortunately, young Baron Prone came up just them, saying cheerfully, “Did you know it’s two in the morning? Really, I’m afraid we must be off home! …So good of you to intervene, d’Armand. …Now, really, you’ll take a chill; we must fetch our cloaks…”

And he bustled away with his grandmother, taking her home unmolested, if disgusted.

Rose came up just in time to prop Robin up as the air went out of him in a sigh of relief.

“A little to the left, there… yes, that’s it.” Rupert relaxed with a soft moan as the robot placed the icebag just right.

“What was that wretched stuff you forced down my throat, Robin?”

“Just the old family remedy, Rupert. I should think you’d recognize the flavor by now.”

“I’ve never had it before,” Elaine groaned. “You could have warned me, Rose!”

“Ah, but if I had, you might not have taken it, Elaine—and you did need it.”

“Certainly I did! What was left for me but intoxication, after the Count made such a shambles of my ball?”

“Oh, the last hour was really quite pleasant,” Rose assured her.

“Only because the old maniac went to bed. Really, Rupert, we must do something!”

“Absolutely!” Rupert winced at his own loudness. More quietly, he went on, “His delusion has inconveniences we’ve only begun to realize.”

“It does seem to be a bit more than we can just quietly live with,” Robin admitted.

” ‘Ignore’ is the term you need, I believe, brother. And we certainly cannot continue to ignore it!”

Robin stiffened. “I didn’t think I had, Rupert!”

“No, certainly you didn’t,” Elaine said quickly. “The two of you were wonderful, Robin. You prevented a major disaster from becoming a total debacle.”

“What’s the difference?” Rupert moaned.

“That at least we will continue to be invited,” Elaine answered, “though I doubt anyone will accept our hospitality again!”

“Perhaps we could persuade Pater to stay in his rooms?” Robin ventured.

“Perhaps you could,” Elaine retorted. “Really, you have an amazing talent for calming the old man, Robin—both of you. It really surpasses understanding.”

” ‘Understanding’ is the vital term,” Rose answered, with a glance at Robin.

Rupert peered up around his ice-pack. “You really do understand him, don’t you? How he feels, I mean.”

“You don’t need to hammer the point home, brother,” Robin sighed. “I plead guilty.”

“We do, I’m afraid,” Rose agreed. “He gave up everything to stay with his wife, and fulfill his responsibilities to his family—but with her gone, he must feel so alone…”

“And so absurd,” Robin agreed, “so much without purpose, as though all his life, all his sacrifice, was for nothing. He wanted to leave, you know—he wanted adventure, excitement. He treasured his few trips to Terra, how he delighted in seeing Paris, Lisbon, London, Vienna, New York, at last…”

“Quite like a child,” Rupert muttered. “He all but clapped his hands and danced.”

“He wanted to live there,” Robin explained, “but now the chance is gone.”

“He wanted to go away,” Rose added.

Elaine frowned, not understanding.

“So he has,” Rose finished.

“Not really,” Elaine answered, “and I wish he had. And taken that hideous old robot with him.”

“But Fess is wonderfully loyal,” Robin protested, “and still most remarkably deft! I certainly couldn’t have calmed Pater without his help!”

“Oh, I’ll admit it functions well enough,” Elaine said quickly, “and it surely proved its worth last night, managing to get that sword away from the old Count.”

“He is still in excellent operating condition,” Rose pointed out.

“Rory? You can’t mean it!”

“No—Fess!”

“Oh.” Elaine leaned back and closed her eyes. “Yes, I suppose so—but chacun a son gout, my dear. For myself, I find that the only antiques acceptable in a household are furniture.”

“Antique!” Robin cried. “He’s a virtual heirloom!”

“Then you’re quite welcome to inherit him,” Rupert said drily, reaching for an analgesic, then paused in the act. “You know, perhaps that’s it.”

Robin frowned. “What?”

“The solution to the problem! Listen, you two seem to be able to tolerate the old man…”

“Tolerate!” Robin spluttered.

“I should certainly think so!” Rose said.

“Chacun a son gout,” Elaine muttered again.

Rupert went on. “And you seem to think old Fess is some sort of marvel. And, well, you know there’s the Grange…”

Robin frowned. “You mean that house Great-Grandmother had built, because she couldn’t abide living with Grandmother?”

“Yes, that’s the one! Look, I know it hasn’t been used for nearly a century—but it has room enough for a family, and a good contingent of robots, though they’re none of them new…”

“Yes, yes, I know the house.” Robin frowned. “We went there to explore often enough when we were boys. What of it, Rupert?”

“Well, I could have it tidied and updated a bit, don’t you know, and you could toddle off over there and live on your own—just the two of you, your boys, Pater, and Fess!”

Rose darted a look of astonishment at her husband. Robin’s eyes widened in hope.

“What a splendid idea!” Elaine cried.

“I’ll deed it over to you, make it your own property, as soon as I inherit,” Rupert assured them, “if you’ll just take Pater with it, and take care of him there.”

“We would be delighted,” Rose declared, before her husband could be self-effacing. “But don’t bother updating it—just have the robots dusted, and make sure it’s in good repair.”

“You are fond of antiques, aren’t you?” Elaine muttered.

But Robin thrust out his chin. “But see here, it won’t do, you know! It won’t do at all!”

“Robin!” both women cried.

“Why not?” Rupert said querulously.

“Well, he’s the Count! Don’t you see? And the Count has to live in the castle!”

Rupert scowled, thinking.

“Oh, what a bothersome point!” Elaine cried.

“Still, he’s right, you know,” Rupert said heavily. “Not for us to say where Pater will go or not go, is it? He is the Count!”

“But he doesn’t have to remain Count, does he?” Rose asked, a gleam in her eye.

Rupert frowned, lifting an eyebrow. “As long as he lives, he does.”

“No, she’s right!” Robin caught her enthusiasm. “If Pater chose to abdicate in your favor, he certainly could, couldn’t he?”

“Why—yes, I suppose so,” Rupert said. “But why would he?”

“Because he already wants to,” Rose explained. “Don’t you see it? Turning the factory over to you, closeting himself with his voice-writer—oh, all the signs point to it! He wants to retire! All he needs is an excuse to allow himself to do it!”

“Perhaps,” Rupert said slowly, “but can he find one?”

“Oh, I think he may,” Rose said, with a smile.

“But I don’t want to learn arithmetic,” Richard grumped. They were trooping through the long gallery on the way back from riding lessons.

“You will need to know it when you are grown, Richard,” the nanny-bot answered.

“What for?”

The nanny-bot registered the presence of Rory, studying his ancestors at the far end of the gallery. The recognition initiated the robot’s new sub-routine. “Because, Richard, when you grow up, you will work in d’Armand Automatons, designing robots.”

“Platinum! That’ll be fun! But what do I need to know math for?”

“You cannot design robots without knowing mathematics.”

Rory looked down from his studying.

“Will I get to design robots, too, Nanny?”

“Yes, Rodney. All d’Armands grow up to—”

“No, Rodney.” Rory came toward them with long strides. “You do not have to work in d’Armand Automatons if you do not want to!”

The six-year-old looked up, startled. “I don’t, Grandpa?”

“No! You can travel! You can forge out into the Galaxy for a life of high adventure!”

“Can I go look for adventure too, Grandpa?”

The old man turned to Richard, and seemed to deflate a little. “Possibly, my boy—though your place is rightfully here.”

Richard stared in indignation. “Why can’t I go?”

“Because you are the eldest son, albeit the eldest of a second son, and as such, you will inherit… whatever Robin may leave.”

“Papa doesn’t have anything.”

“No, he has some patents in his own right,” Rory sighed, “and is likely to have many more before he dies. You will inherit his responsibilities as well as his assets.”

“But I want to have adventures, too!”

“Me, too, Grandpa!”

“Well, then, set your minds to it, boys, and we’ll find a way, eh?” Rory grinned. “After all, it’s not as though you were the direct heirs! Perhaps you shall be able to go, Richard—and certainly you shall, Rodney!”

The little boy’s eyes clouded. “But I don’t want to leave Maxima, Grandpa!”

“Ah, but you will,” Rory said softly. “Be sure of that—you will!”

Suddenly, he seemed to remember himself, and stood up, stepping aside. “But enough chat with a foolish old man. If you go out among the stars, you will need mathematics to find your way from planet to planet—and if you stay, you’ll need mathematics to design robots.”

Doom hovered in Richard’s face. “You mean we’ll need math no matter what?”

“I fear so, lad. So go off with nanny-bot and buckle down to your lessons. Chin up, now!”

And, as he watched them go on down the gallery, he murmured, “No man should be bound against his will—even through riches!”

Fess had a new sub-routine of his own that was initiated by the conversation. “Still, boss master, some must accept such bonds, for the good of their fellows.”

“Oh, must they?” Rory muttered, with dark sarcasm.

“Still,” the robot went on, “there comes a time when they can lay aside such burdens—when someone else is willing to take them up.”

“Or, even, eager,” Rory muttered, thinking of Rupert.

“At such a time, effendi, a man could become free to do as he wishes again.”

“Ah, but if he’s too old, Fess—what then?”

“The older we grow, the more delights we may discover, boss sahib.”

“There’s some truth in that…”

“But only if we burst the bonds completely, O Wise and Honored Master, and leave them to those who wish them.”

Rory nodded, gaze still on the boys as they went out the far door of the gallery.

Rory began to seem a bit more restless, and was often seen muttering to himself, with Fess in polite attendance. Particularly, he seemed to grow impatient at dinner, and the more so as Elaine and Rupert exercised their prerogatives as heiress and heir, and dominated the conversation.

“I’m sure she’s a good woman,” he said testily, on his way to his room, “but she prattles on about so many inconsequentialities!”

“I am sure they are matters of consequence to her, sahib.”

“But must so many matters be of consequence? I swear the woman would worry about the time of day!”

“She has been mentioning that dinner is perhaps too late…”

“There! You see? No pleasing her, none! Ah, for some peace in my declining years, loyal squire!”

“You should, perhaps, seek the tranquility of a monastery, master boss.”

“Now, there’s a thought.” Rory frowned, mulling it over. “Of course, it’s a bit of a way to the nearest one…”

“Not in the realm of Dondedor, my lord. Have you not told me there is a chapter house hard by the castle?”

“There is, now that you mention it.” Rory gazed off into space.

Then, abruptly, he shook his head. “No, can’t be done. I have responsibilities here; I can’t go gallivanting off just yet.”

“That is, of course, for you to say, O wise and forbearing master.”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Rory cocked his head to the side, thinking.

“Oh, what a deal of bother these formal clothes are!”

“Nevertheless, it is de rigueur for a meeting of the Council, milord master.” Fess fastened the archaic hooks and eyes up Rory’s backbone.

“Restricting, confining… and damned uncomfortable! I tell you what, Fess, can’t Rupert appear for me?”

“That would never do, my lord and master,” Fess said severely. “The Count himself must attend! If all the lords, or even a substantial portion of them, were to send surrogates, no issues could be decided!”

“True, true,” Rory sighed. “Nice to have you around to remind me of what I already know too well. And just when I thought I was managing to bring the onerous aspects of this office under control. Is there no way to shift this burden, Fess?”

“You might retire to that monastery, O master of wise restraint.”

Rory pursed his lips, then frowned. “A monastery’s a bit too restrictive, but a quiet retreat might be pleasant. A bit lonely, though.”

“Sir! You insult your family!”

Rory looked up, startled. “I do?”

“Certainly! At least some of them must be willing to follow you in your retirement, and would take such pleasure in your company as not to miss the glories of the castle!”

“Rose is a sweet girl, that’s true, and I sometimes think Robin chafes at the restrictions of protocol as much as I…”

“And is equally adept at hiding it,” Fess murmured.

“A point… Well! That cummerbund, now—for the last time, eh?” He glanced back at Fess with a twinkle in his eye.

“You’re doing what?”

“Do pull your eyeballs back into your head, Rupert, there’s a good chap.” Rory smiled, with a sly glance at Elaine’s look of awe. ” ‘Abdicating,’ I said. Renouncing the office of Count. There’s no law that says I can’t, is there?”

“No, but… but, Pater! It’s never been done!”

“Only because this is the first time. Come now, m’ boy, pull yourself together. I know the County’s a bit of a burden, but you’ll bear up, won’t you? Yes, and come to like it in time, I’m sure.” Rory sipped at his brandy to hide his smile.

So did Rose.

“Oh, Robin! Can it really be true?” Rose clutched her husband’s arm as they rode through the tunnel to the Dower House.

“It appears that it is, my dear.” Beside her, Robin looked equally dazed.

“Oh, come now, you two!” Count Rory scoffed. “Is this any way to greet the season? Or would you rather we’d put it off until after the holidays?”

“Oh no, Beau-Papa!” Rose caught his arm, too. “I couldn’t imagine a more wonderful present for Christmas!”

“Perhaps,” Count Rory mused. “Perhaps.”

Fess brought the little car to a halt by the huge airlock door, stepped down to the end of the tube, undogged the hatch, and pulled it open. He stepped through and pressed the button beside the inner hatch. The airlock checked for pressure match, found it, and lit the green patch. Fess opened the door to the Grange and stepped back. “Sahibs and mem-sahib, your mansion awaits.”

Rose stepped forward, dewy-eyed, and Robin stepped after her—but Rory caught him by the elbow and murmured in his ear, “There is a tradition, my boy.”

Robin stared at his wife, startled, then smiled, stepped forward, and swept her off her feet. “Robin!” she shrieked. “Whatever are you doing?”

“I,” Robin answered, “am carrying my bride over the threshold.”

“Oh, you silly! Oh, do be careful—it’s such a high threshold!”

“It is,” Robin agreed, hoisting a foot over the bottom of the hatch. “But don’t worry, dear—if I drop you, Fess will catch you.”

“Oh, you beast! Don’t you dare!”

“I didn’t.” Robin grinned down at her, safe inside the Grange.

Wide-eyed, Rodney and Richard clambered in, holding tight to the nanny-bot. Rory followed.

“Madame!” Robin bowed with a flourish. “Your domain!”

Rose turned, looking about her at the entry hall—and saw the huge Christmas tree, towering twelve feet up against the sweep of a curving staircase, decked with glowing lights, balls of fragile tracery, and glittering tinsel. Her eyes widened. “Oh, Robin! Our tree! How perfect, for Christmas Eve! How wonderful!”

He lowered her feet to the floor and turned to look about him, smiling fondly. “Considerably brighter than when last I saw it.” He looked up at Rory with a grin. “What do you say, Pater? ‘A man’s home is his castle,’ eh?”

“Nay—‘tis his wife’s!” Rory stepped forward to Rose and bowed, proffering a ring of magi-keys. “Dame d’Armand, it is you who are chatelaine!”

“Oh, but—Beau-Papa, no! It is your house!”

“No longer,” Rory said severely. “As of midnight last night, I am the former Count.”

“But the deed…”

“Has not been executed. There is a contract between my heir and myself, stating that he shall be Count, but that I shall have lifetime tenancy of the Grange in your company and that, after my death, you and Robin shall have tenancy as long as either of you shall live.”

“But… you won’t die!” Rose melted against his chest, embracing the old man. “You’ll be with us forever and ever, Beau-Papa!”

“In some sense… surely…” Rory stroked her hair and exchanged a glance with his son.

Suddenly, he smiled and winked.

He stepped back, holding Rose by the shoulders. “Come, Madame! Survey your domain!” And he moved away from them, toward the great dining room.

But Rose stepped up closely against Robin, wiping away a tear and demanding, in a fierce whisper, “Have I the keys to the airlocks, here, too?”

“I assure you that you have, mem-sahib,” Fess murmured as he brushed past her on his way to his master.

“Praise Heaven for that!” she sighed. “Come, Robin—he’s getting ahead of us!”

“Hasn’t he always?” Robin muttered, but he followed.

Rose stopped in the archway, looking about her with a gasp of delight. She saw a room forty feet by thirty, paneled in dark wood all the way up to the frescoed ceiling. A long, polished table, inlaid with ivory, filled the center of the room, stately chairs ranked about it. A marble sideboard stood against the far wall.

“Oh, Beau-Papa!” Rose breathed, “it is magnificent!” Then she caught sight of the huge rank of clerestory windows and gasped again.

“Spectacular, yes,” Rory said, “and quite extravagant, so many airtight portholes of such vast size—but Mother saw no reason to stint herself.”

“An excellent view of Chateau d’Armand,” Rory said with a smile, “almost as though it were a painting.”

“Beau-Papa! Oh, it’s beautiful!” Tears filled Rose’s eyes. “However did you manage it?”

“What?” Robin came up behind his wife, then stared in disbelief. “My word! Snow!”

“A full fall of snow, all about the chateau!” Rose cried. “Oh, Beau-Papa, it’s lovely! But so extravagant! Oh, you shouldn’t have!”

“Ah, but I didn’t!” Rory chuckled. “Fess did.”

Rose couldn’t take her eyes from the sight, but murmured in disbelief, “How could you achieve it, Fess?”

“Why, according to His Lordship’s commands,” Fess answered smoothly.

Rose turned and flung herself at the Count, hugging him tightly, head on his chest.

“My dear, my dear,” he murmured, touching her hair, “spare me breath…”

She lifted eyes filled with tears. “But you shouldn’t have, Beau-Papa!” And she kissed him soundly on the cheek.

“Nothing is too good for the lady of the manor,” he assured her, and turned her gently but firmly to face the room. “This will be your domain, my dear.”

“And it is magnificent! It is all magnificent!”

“Aye.” Rory smiled. “Its vaulting arches, its pillars of marble! The brave and valiant banners that adorn its walls! Yet naught, naught, can ever be of such perfect beauty as this Rainbow Crystal!” In rapt fascination, he reached out toward the great prism that hung from the center of the chandelier.

Little Rodney tugged at Rose’s skirt. “I don’t see any marble pillars, Mama! Where are they?”

“Hush, dear,” Rose whispered. “Your grandfather…”

With a cry of despair, Rory snatched at the air below the chandelier. ” ‘Tis vanished, ‘tis gone!” Then he turned slowly, looking about him, hands lifted in awe. “It is not here, it is not anywhere! ‘Tis vanished quite—the Rainbow Crystal of Granclarte!”

“But it’s right there!” little Richard protested. “Why can’t he see it?”

“Hush,” Rose said again, and Rory ranted on, unheeding. “How cruel, to reveal to me such perfection, then snatch it away! Knights, lords, ladies—what injustice is this?”

“There’s just us,” Rodney whispered, beginning to be frightened. Rose pressed him against her, but Robin stepped forward and said, softly, “Perhaps it is no injustice, but a promise.”

Slowly, Rory turned to him, a look of beatific understanding spreading across his features. “Aye, it is! A promise, and a charge—is it not? For ‘tis surely the image of the perfection for which every knight of Granclarte must strive! Earls and barons! Noblemen of Granclarte! Hearken and heed me! Who will take up this quest, this glorious quest, for the perfect beauty of the Rainbow Crystal?”

Rodney started to say something, but Rose pressed a hand over his lips, and Rory stood, looking about him as though listening, his face expectant. Then, slowly, he smiled. “Nay, certes!”

“Has His Majesty appointed a champion, then?” Robin asked softly.

“Aye, that he has! And who is it? Which knight hath he chosen for this most fabulous of charges? Why, who but that most valiant of champions—Beaubras!”

Two small boys in bathrobes and slippers peeked around the doorway of the study.

“Go on, now,” the nanny-bot coaxed. “He won’t bite, you know.”

Rodney and Richard didn’t look at all certain of that, but they stepped through the doorway manfully, though with trepidation.

“Hm?” Grandpa (no longer Count) Rory turned toward them. “Richard! Rodney! Come in, come in!”

Somewhat reassured, they stepped into the Inner Sanctum. “Come, there’s a knee for each of you.” Rory patted his lap.

They broke into grins and hopped up.

“Now, then.” Rory drummed his heels underneath them, and they giggled. “What did you want of an old ci-devant like me?”

Rodney frowned. “What’s a seedy van?”

But Richard said, more loudly, “A story, Grandpa! Another story!”

“Another?” Rory shook his head sadly. “Ah, poor lads. I’m sorry, then, for I’ve only the one.”

“Oh, Grandpa! Stop being mean! I mean another story inside the big story!”

“Oh! Well, that’s another matter. Yes, another part of the big story… But, let me see, now… My memory isn’t what it used to be…”

“You left off in the middle of the forest,” Rodney said, recognizing a cue when he heard one, and Richard said, “Sir Beaubras had just rescued the damsel Demure.”

“Ah, yes! He had saved her from the enchantment of Ulcer, the Wizard of Orange.” Rory gazed off into space, his smile growing dreamy.

The two boys snuggled down and hushed. They knew that look.

“Onward they rode,” Rory began, “though the bleached and leafless trees of the Forest Malalder reached out long, thorny branches to catch at them.”

The boys shivered with delicious dread.

“Onward, past the tarn of Lobier, until they came nigh Callow Slough. Then a roar like the thunder of kettledrums shook the forest, and there rose up before them a vasty, rotund ogre…”

And he was off, taking the boys with him into the land that only he could see, where the knight Beaubras battled and bested the ogre Pomposity, and it fell back into Callow Slough (though perhaps not forever), as all things must that journey not to Granclarte.

At last, his voice lilted and ended, and he sat gazing off into space, smiling at the vision he beheld.

Richard looked up at him, holding his breath, then reached over and poked Rodney, who lifted his head slowly, blinking, then realized Grandpa had stopped talking and looked up, hoping. But the nanny-bot emitted a noise like the clearing of a throat and said, “It was a wonderful tale, my lord. But the hour grows late.”

“Yes, of course.” Rory’s eyes came back into focus, and he smiled down at his grandsons. “That’s enough for one night, hmm? Now off to bed with you!”

“Oh, but Grandpa…”

“Just a little more, Grandpa!”

“Boys,” the nanny-bot said—not loudly; but it was enough to strengthen Rory against temptation. “No, bedtime is bedtime, and you’re past it already. Don’t you want Santa to come with his rocket-sled?”

The boys looked at one another, startled; they had quite forgotten Christmas in the wonder of the story.

“Off with you, now! Shoo! If I keep you up too late, your mother will forbid you to come here—and so will I, for that matter. The tales of Granclarte are only for those who try with all their might to do what is right for all, and to be good.”

The boys hopped down with alacrity. “Good night, Grandpa!”

” ‘Night!”

“Merry Christmas, Grandpa!”

“Not yet, silly!” Richard corrected, with all the lofty authority of a big brother.

“Good night, lads, and sweet dreams of sugar-plums.” Rory gazed after them, doting, as the nanny-bot ushered them out of the study. He heard their voices echoing away down the hall.

“Boy, we’re lucky to have him for a grandpa!”

“Yeah! Daddy says Grandpa never told him stories like that.”

Rory’s eyebrows shot up, and he bowed his head in acknowledgement of guilt. “Ah, Robin! Rupert! What can I say to you, lads? Only that I couldn’t see Granclarte, then… Well.” He turned around toward his scriptorium. “At least I can leave you a record of it, of what I have seen there, and perhaps, in your old age, you will receive its tale with as great a delight as your sons have… New material.”

The enchanted parchment on the scriptorium went blank and clear as a new page for a moment; then glowing letters appeared on it, showing the words that he had spoken to his grandsons. “Scroll slowly,” he murmured, and watched as the rows of words moved slowly upward. Now and again he would say, “Pause”—and lo! The wondrous foolscap would cease scrolling! Then he would point with his miraculous quill which, in accordance with this Court of Granclarte, inscribed with light, not with ink; and, as he spoke a new word or phrase, he could see it appear where his quill indicated. Anon he would blot a word entire with his quill, and it would disappear as though it had never been, or he would change the spelling of a homonym that created a glorious, but ill-placed, pun.

Sometimes, of course, he only chuckled, and let the pun stand.

Old Fess stood by, just behind his chair, faithful and patient, attentive and vigilant as ever, silently watching his old master working at the screen of the voicewriter with his light-pen.

THE END