“Excuse me, sir,” said the desk clerk. “Are you Mr Claude Glystra, of Earth?”

  Glystra swung around in surprise. “Why do you ask?”

  “Sir Walden Marchion extends his compliments, and begs that you and your party honor him by residing at his villa the period of your stay. He has sent his carriage for your use, if you will so favor him.”

  Glystra turned to Clodleberg, spoke in a cold voice. “How did this Sir Walden Marchion know of our arrival?”

  Clodleberg flushed, preened his mustaches furiously.

  “Who’s been talking?”

  Clodleberg said with immense dignity, “The head porter at the landing inquired your identity ... I saw no reason to conceal it. You had issued no orders to that effect.”

  Glystra turned away. If any harm was to result from the indiscretion, the harm was by now done; no benefit would come of dressing down Clodleberg, for whom, in general, he felt a high regard. “News certainly travels fast in Kirstendale . . . What is your opinion in regard to the invitation?”

  Clodleberg turned to the desk clerk. “Exactly who is Sir Walden Marchion?”

  “One of the wealthiest and most influential men in Kirstendale. A very distinguished gentleman.”

  Clodleberg fondled his mustache. “Unusual, but gratifying . . .” He surveyed Glystra with a new appraisal. “I see no reason to decline.”

  Glystra said to the desk clerk, “We’ll accept the invitation.”

  The desk clerk nodded. “I’m sure that you’ll find your visit pleasant. Sir Walden has served meat at his table on several occasions . . . The carriage is awaiting. Ah, Man-ville, if you will ...” He signalled to the clerk at the Grand Savoyard sector of the desk. This clerk nodded to a young man in a rich black livery with yellow piping down the sides, who clicked his heels, bowed, stalked out the Grand Savoyard entrance and a moment later reappeared in the Hunt Club corridor. He strode up to Glystra, clicked his heels, bowed.

  “Sir Walden’s carriage, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  Careful not to commit the faux pas of leaving by the Travellers Inn entrance, the party returned outside, climbed into a long low brougham. The doorman closed the door, the carriage driver said, “Your luggage will be conveyed to Sir Walden’s.”

  “Such courtesy,” murmured Pianza. “Such unbelievable punctilio!”

  Cloyville sank back in the deep cushioned seats with a sigh. “I’m afraid that I like it. Guess I’m soft, or possibly an anachronism. I’ll have to admit that all this feudalism finds a customer in me.”

  “I wonder,” said Glystra, watching out the window, “what the desk clerk meant when he said that Sir Walden often served meat.”

  Clodleberg blew out his cheeks. “Easily explained. By a peculiar freak the Galatudanian Valley supports no animal life other than the zipangotes, whose flesh is so rank as to be inedible. A parasitic insect deadly to creatures with fur, scales or floss is responsible. The zipangote, with his naked hide, is not troubled. The Kirsters therefore subsist on vegetable food, fruits, yeast, fungus, an occasional water-creature, certain varieties of insect, and on rare occasions, meat, imported from Coelanvilli.”

  The carriage, drawn by five runners in Sir Walden’s black livery, trundled across the pavement. They passed a row of shops. The first displayed delicate creations of gauze and puff, the second sold flagons carved of green chert and mottled blue soapstone. The next booth offered pom-poms of twirled green and rose satin, the next was a jewellery, with trays full of glinting lights, next a display of glassware—goblets exceedingly tall and slender, with tiny cups and long fine stems, and the window glittered and glistened in vertical lines and diamond-colored striations.

  “I’m rather interested in the economy,” said Cloyville. “Somewhere these goods are fabricated. Where? By whom? Slaves? It takes lots of production to support this kind of a set-up. Expensive leisure classes—like that.” He pointed to a plaza where men and women in extravagant clothes sat listening to seven young girls playing flutes and singing in clear sweet voices.

  Glystra scratched his head. “I don’t see how they do it. They certainly can’t be supplied from Earth. . . .”

  “Evidently this is their secret,” said Pianza. “The Kirstendale Paradox.”

  Cloyville said with an air of finality, “Whatever it is, it seems to suit everybody; everybody seems happy.”

  “Everybody in sight,” said Corbus.

  Wailie and Motta had been chattering—bright-eyed, excited. Glystra watched them a moment, wondering what was going on in their brains . . . They had filled out, their cheeks were no longer hollow, their hair was glossy and well-tended, they were pretty girls. Corbus and Bishop were modestly proud of them. Corbus patted Motta’s head. “See anything you’d like?”

  “Oh, yes! Jewels and metal and lovely cloth, and ribbons and spangles and those lovely sandals. ...”

  Corbus winked at Bishop. “Clothes, clothes, clothes.”

  “Le plus de la différence, le plus de la même chose” said Bishop.

  The carriage turned among the towers—graceful spires swooping up to the onion-shaped dwellings.

  The carriage halted by a pale green column; a servant swung wide the door. “The castle of Sir Walden Marchion ...”

  12. Kirstendale Idyll

  The party alighted, the carriage swept off.

  “This way if you please. ...”

  They climbed the stairs, spiralling up to the beetling shape of Sir Walden’s castle. Buttress vanes sprang out from the central column, elbowing up and out to the outer flange.

  Corbus felt one of the vanes—a parchment-tan material two inches thick. “Wood . . . Looks like it grows right out of the trunk.” He cocked his head up to where the floor swelled out in a smooth curve. “These things grew here! They’re big plants!”

  The servant looked back, his black brows in a straight disapproving line. “This is the castle of Sir Walden, his manse. . . .”

  Corbus winked at Glystra. “Guess I was wrong; it’s not a big acorn after all.”

  “Certainly not,” said the servant.

  The stairway made one last swoop far out from the central column, apparently supported by its own structural strength; then the party stood on a wide plat, swept by the cool Big Planet breezes.

  The servant flung open the door, stood aside. Sir Walden’s guests entered the sky-castle.

  They stood in a large room, light and airy, decorated with an unobtrusive intricacy. The floor was not level, but flared like a trumpet bell. A pool of water dyed bright blue filled the depression in the center. Insects with white gauzy wings and feelers scuttled and ran back and forth across the surface, trailing V-ripples which sparkled momentarily green. The floor surrounding the pool was covered by a carpet woven from dark and light-green floss; the walls were bright blue, except where a frieze in sharp black and white, of blank-faced men with owl-insect eyes, occupied one wall.

  “Be at your ease,” said the servant. “Sir Walden is on his way to welcome you; in the meanwhile dispose yourselves as you will. Refreshing ichors are at your disposal, in three vintages: maychee, worm, vervaine; pray be so good as to enjoy them.”

  He bowed, withdrew. The travellers were alone.

  Glystra sighed heavily. “Looks like a nice place . . . Doesn’t seem to be a jail. . . .”

  Five minutes passed before Sir Walden appeared—a tall man, sober-faced, rather gravely beautiful. He apologized for not being on hand to greet them, professing himself delayed beyond remedy elsewhere.

  Glystra, when he found opportunity, muttered aside to Pianza, “Where have we seen him before? Or have we?”

  Pianza shook his head. “Nowhere to my knowledge. ...”

  Two lads of fourteen and sixteen wearing pink, yellow and green, with curl-toed sandals of remarkable design, entered the room. They bowed. “At your service, friends from Mother Earth.”

  “My sons,” said Sir Walden, “Thane and Halmon.”

  Glystra said, “We are delighted to enjoy the hospitality of your house, Sir Walden, but—bluntly—may I inquire why it has been extended to us, complete strangers that we are?”

  Sir Walden made an elegant gesture. “Please . . . We will chat far and long—but now, you are weary and travel-worn. So you shall be refreshed.” He clapped his hands. “Servants!”

  A dozen men and women appeared. “Baths for our guests scented with—” he kneaded his chin with his hand, as if the matter required the utmost nicety of judgment. He arrived at a decision. “—with Nigali No. 29, that will be most suitable, and let there be new garments for their comfort.”

  Cloyville sighed. “A bath . . . Hot water. ...”

  “Thank you,” said Glystra shortly. Sir Walden’s hospitality was still a mystery.

  A servant stood before him, bowed. “This way, sir.”

  He was conveyed to a pleasant chamber high above the city. An expressionless young man in tight black livery took his clothes. “Your bath is through this door, Lord Glystra.”

  Glystra stepped into a small room with walls of seamless mother-of-pearl. Warm water rose up around his knees, his waist, his chest. Foam, bubbles surged up under his feet, rushed up past his tingling body, burst into his face with a pleasant sharp fragrance. Glystra sighed, relaxed, floated.

  The fragrance of the foam shifted, changed, always new, now tart, now sweet. Bubbles kneaded his skin, flushed it free of grime and perspiration, toned, stimulated, and fatigue was gone, leaving behind a pleasant soft weariness.

  The water level dropped swiftly, warm air gushed around him. He pushed open the door.

  The man had disappeared. A girl carrying a towel on two outstretched arms stood before him smiling. She wore a short black skirt, no more. Her body was tan and lovely, her hair arranged in a stylized loose swirl.

  “I am your room-servant. However, if you find me unpleasant or unsuitable, I will go.”

  She seemed very sure that he would find her neither. Glystra stood still a moment, then seized the towel, wrapped himself in it.

  “Does—um, everyone get a playmate?”

  She nodded.

  “The women too?”

  She nodded again. “That they may welcome you with renewed pleasure when at last you depart.”

  “Mmmph,” snorted Glystra. He wondered about the man now possibly standing before the naked Nancy. “Mmmph.”

  He said with a brusqueness and finality he did not altogether feel, “Give me my clothes.”

  With no change in expression, she brought him Kirstendale garments, assisted him into the intricate folds, tucks and drapes.

  At last she pronounced him dressed. He wore a garment of green and blue in which he felt awkward and ridiculous. The first piece of head-gear she brought forward, a tall tricorn dangling a dozen wooden sound-blocks, he refused even to allow on his head. The girl insisted that a man without a head-ornament would be a spectacle for derision, and finally he allowed her to pull a loose black velvet beret over his cropped black poll, and before he could protest she had fixed a string of scarlet beads so as to hang over one ear.

  She stood back, admired him. “Now my lord is a lord among lords . . . Such a presence. ...”

  “I feel like a lord among jackasses,” muttered Glystra. He went to the door, but the girl was there before him to sweep it open. Glystra frowned, stalked through, wondering if Sir Walden had also arranged to have him fed with a spoon.

  He descended to the main hall. Sunset light poured in through the mullioned windows. A pair of lads placed screens of violet and green satin where they would glow to the best advantage. A round table was spread with heavy ivory cloth, and set with fourteen places.

  The plates were marble, thin and fragile, apparently carved and worked by hand; the implements were carved from a hard black wood.

  One by one Glystra’s companions arrived—the men sheepish in their new garments, the girls sparkling and radiant. Nancy wore pale green, pink and white. When she entered the room Glystra hastily sought her eye, hoping to read how she had disposed of the companion assigned her by the painstaking Sir Walden. She looked away, would not meet his eye. Glystra clamped his mouth, scowled toward the blue pool in the center of the room.

  Sir Walden appeared and with him his two sons, a daughter, and a tall woman in billows of lavender lace whom he introduced as his wife.

  Dinner was a splendid event, course after course, dishes of unfamiliar, odd-tasting food, all elaborately prepared and served: greens, fibers, cereals, fungus, fruits, thistles, succulent stems, prepared in starchy coverings like ravioli, spicy goulashes, croquettes, pastries, jellies, salads. The variety was such that it came as a slight shock when Glystra realized that the meal was entirely vegetarian— with the exception of certain ambiguous hashes, which he took to be of insect origin, and avoided.

  After dinner there was oil-smooth liquor and much talk. Glystra’s head swam with the dinner wine, and the liquor relaxed him completely. He leaned toward Sir Walden.

  “Sir, you have not yet explained your interest in us casual passers-by.”

  Sir Walden made a delicate grimace. “Surely it is a trivial matter. Since I enjoy your company, and you must rest your heads somewhere—what is the difference?”

  “It is a matter which disturbs me,” protested Glystra. “Every human act is the result of some impulse; the nature of the impulse which caused you to send the messenger for us preys on my mind ... I hope you will forgive my insistence. . . .”

  Sir Walden smiled, toyed with a bit of fruit. “Some of us here in Kirstendale subscribe to the Doctrine of Illogical Substitution, which in many respects disputes your theory of causation. And then there is the Tempofluxion Dogma—very interesting, although I for one cannot entirely accept the implications. Possibly the central postulates are unknown on Earth? The advouters claim that as the river of time flows past and through us, our brains are disturbed—jostled, if you will—by irregularities, eddies, in the flow of the moments. They believe that if it were possible to control the turbulence in the river, it would be possible to manipulate creative ability in human minds. What do you say to that?”

  “That I still wonder why you asked us to be your guests.”

  Sir Walden laughed helplessly. “Very well, you might as well learn the inconsequential truth—and learn the inconsequentially of our lives in Kirstendale.” He leaned forward, as if resolved on candor. “We Kirsters love novelty—the new, the fresh, the exciting. You are Earth-men. No Earthmen have passed through Kirstendale for fifty years. Your presence in my house not only affords me the pleasure of new experience, but also adds to my prestige in the town . . . You see, I am perfectly frank, even to my disadvantage.”

  “I see,” said Glystra. The explanation appeared reasonable.

  “I was quick with my invitation. Undoubtedly you would have received a dozen others inside the hour. But I have connections with the depot agent.”

  Glystra tried to remember the head porter at the landing, who must have relayed the information almost instantly to Sir Walden.

  Sir Walden cared little for answering Glystra’s questions; he preferred to discuss contemporary Earth culture, a lead which Glystra followed, to please his host.

  The evening passed. Glystra, head spinning from the wine and liquor, was conducted to his room. Waiting to undress him was the girl who had helped him into his clothes. She moved on soundless bare feet, murmuring softly as she unclasped the buckles, untied the hundred and one ribbons, bindings, tassels. Glystra was drowsy. Her voice was warm and heady as mulled wine.

  The morning attendant was a thin-faced young man, who dressed Glystra after his morning bath in silence.

  Glystra hurried to the main hall, anxious to find Nancy. How had she spent the night? The question throbbed at the back of his mind like a bubble of stagnant blood. But she was not yet in evidence. Pianza and Corbus sat alone at the table, eating pink melon.

  Corbus was speaking. “—I think I’ll trade Motta in on this yellow-haired girl. That’s the way to cross a planet, wench by wench!”

  Glystra muttered a greeting, sat down. A moment later Nancy entered the room, fresh, blue-eyed, more beautiful than Glystra had ever remembered her. He half-rose to his feet, caught her eye. She nodded casually, dropped into the seat opposite him, began to dip into the pink melon.

  Glystra returned to his own food. Big Planet was not Earth. He could not judge a Big Planet girl by Earth standards . . . During breakfast he tried to fathom her mind. She was pleasant, detached, cool.

  One by one the party entered the hall, until at last everyone was present. Except—

  “Where’s Cloyville?” asked Pianza. “Doesn’t he plan to get up?” He turned to a servant. “Will you please arouse Mr Cloyville?”

  The servant returned. “Mr Cloyville is not in his room.”

  Cloyville was not seen all day.

  It was possible, said Sir Walden, that he had wished to explore the town on foot. Glystra, with no other hypothesis to offer, concurred politely. If Cloyville had indeed wandered off, he would return when he felt so inclined. If he had been taken against his will, Glystra was unable to formulate a plan to retrieve him. Words would avail nothing ... It might be wise, thought Glystra, to leave Kirstendale as soon as possible. He said as much at lunch.

  Wailie and Motta were downcast, and toyed with their food sulkily. “Best we should remain here in Kirstendale,” said Wailie. “Everyone is gay; there is no beating of the woman, and a great deal of food.”

  “Of course there is no meat,” Motta pointed out, “but who cares? The fabrics and the perfumed water and—” she glanced at Wailie and giggled. They looked at Corbus and Bishop, and giggled again.

  Bishop blushed, sipped green fruit juice. Corbus raised his eyebrows sardonically. Glystra chuckled; then, thinking of Nancy, asked himself ruefully, what am I laughing at?