"We're all well, here. Richard, we've been trying to get in touch with you ever since your arrival. Your mother has been -- "
"Dick, dear!" His mother's face came into view; her voice sounded strained. "We've been so worried. Why haven't you called?"
Dick heard himself saying, "There's been a jam-up with the scrambled circuits." He had had no conscious intention of lying, but he saw now that the truth was impossible, it would have involved too many explanations.
"Well, at least you're all right," she said, staring earnestly at him out of the screen. "It's so good to see you, dear. You look a little tired."
"No doubt he's been busy," said his father. "Your commission came through, I take it?"
"Yes, Dad. I'm in the Fifth Horse, under General Myer." Clay had taken him around to Van Etten's office the day after his drubbing, and Van Etten, his demeanor changed as if by magic, had settled the whole matter in five minutes. His father nodded approvingly. "That's a good outfit. You spoke to Ruell?"
"Yes."
"And did he arrange a connection for you?"
"Well, not exactly, Dad." He hesitated: here, surely, he had to explain the whole business; but where was he to start?
His father's expression sharpened. "No? Do you mean you haven't got a connection?"
"Oh, yes, I've got one -- Mrs. Demetriou; she's very nice. But Ruell and I had a kind of a disagreement ... " His voice trailed away.
"A woman?" his mother asked. "Fred, I'm not sure I care for that. Dear, what kind of a woman is she? How did you meet her? Is she -- "
"I've heard of her," his father said. "It's all right." He looked steadily at Dick. "You haven't made an enemy out of Ruell, I hope?"
"Oh, no, Dad." An outright lie.
"Very well. Richard, the children want to say hello to you, and then we'll talk again."
His mother moved reluctantly away from the screen. "Dick, be sure to write as soon as you can ... " He realized with a curious shock that she looked older than she had when he left."
Ad and Felix tumbled into view, shouting, "Hello, Dick!" followed by Constance looking oddly grown-up, with her hair done on top of her head, and young Edward in Miss Molly's arms, all beaming and babbling at the same time ...
His father shooed them out of the room after a few moments, and stood with his head turned, waiting to be sure they were out of earshot; then he turned and looked at Dick silently.
"How are things," Dick asked, "at Twin Lakes?"
"As well as could be expected," his father answered. "The decoy plane we sent returned safely, you may be interested to know."
Dick started; he had forgotten about it.
"However, that's a small matter," his father continued. "What I wanted to discuss with you, Richard -- " He hesitated, uncharacteristically, and began again with a frown of distaste. "You may possibly remember the juggler who fell and was injured during the banquet."
Dick thought a moment. "Oh. Yes, I think so."
"We found some filth concealed in his clothing -- pamphlets. Directions for making weapons out of kitchen knives and garden implements. Worse things."
Dick felt himself paling with shock. "You mean our slaves -- ?"
"Some of them must have received copies without reporting it. We don't know which ones. We've never used manacles here, Richard, but I think under the circumstances we have no choice."
"Yes, of course, Dad." He moistened his lips. "But; I mean, I can't believe -- "
"No, neither can I. Our slaves have always been loyal. But there's something in the air this year, Richard; I've felt it in Richmond and other places. I think it's best to be prepared. Well, Richard, that's all, then, I think."
"Yes, Dad. Good-bye."
The picture rushed toward its center, a streaky whirlpool of color, twitching, dwindling, gone.
9
After a month he was beginning to feel almost at home in Eagles. There were some things about it that he didn't like, some that disturbed him, some he couldn't understand, but on the whole, there was no denying that it was a fascinating place to be. Eagles was inexhaustible; it covered the whole south and east faces of the mountain-top in dozens of bewilderingly split levels. There was an underground games arena where football and baseball were played by team of slaves; there was a library, housed in an area bigger than the main building at Buckhill; there were collection halls, gardens, observatories. There were whole sections that Dick had never seen, and was not likely to without special permission; even leaving these out, the place was forever changing, always full of new things. No one ever seemed to let well enough alone; you might awaken to find that the corridor outside had been repaved in slabs of turquoise, or that the little Moorish courtyard just this side of the Grand Promenade had vanished and been replaced by an aquarium full of incredible fish -- frilled, golden, stately fish that made you want to stand and stare at them.
But there was never time to pause very long anywhere. Something else always beckoned, or there was an appointment to keep, or clothes to be fitted for a party -- clothes alone took an astonishing amount of time -- or if not that, then girls, or Vivian. On the whole, he had to admit that he didn't see much of Vivian, she disappeared sometimes for days; but there were times when she wanted to be escorted somewhere by four or five protégés, and then it was only common courtesy, considering how much they all owed her.
He frowned. His valet, Alex, who was certainly ten tunes better trained than the one he had had before, or Sam at home, either, for that matter -- although Dick was rapidly learning to accept his unobtrusive deftness as a standard -- Alex immediately stopped finicking at the folds of his heck-cloth, stepped back, and with his head a little on one side examined the effect.
"Alex, we haven't anything on with Mrs. Demetriou today, have we?"
"Not that they've told us about, mister. We haven't seen the Missis this week."
"That's right, good. I was thinking of the opera, but that's Friday. Is Mr. Clay here yet?"
"I see, mister." Alex stepped to the door, glanced out. "Just arriving, mister, this minute."
"Well, are you through with this damned neck-cloth?"
"Dick!" came Clay's voice from the outer room. "Let's go -- we're late already."
"I haven't had breakfast!" Dick protested.
Clay popped his head in the doorway. "It's almost one o'clock, you fungus. Come on, do you want to see the Tower or don't you? Make up your mind."
"All right." Alex was holding out his new morning jacket; he slipped his arms into it. It was hand-loomed, watered silk, in a pattern that gave him height. "Are Thor and Johnny coming?" he asked.
"No, just the two of us -- I could only get two places." Alex was fastening the belt and chains; Clay picked up the striped silk cap from the dressing table and clapped it on Dick's head. "Come on," he said, dragging him toward the door. "I tell you, we're late."
Clay had a chair waiting. As soon as they got into it the chairboys started off at a trot; but they were hardly well into the main corridor when they slowed down again. There was some sort of turmoil up ahead; people were drawing back to either side of the corridor, chairs and pedestrians alike. They followed suit. Down the wide empty avenue came a little group of men at a walking pace. In the lead was a heavy man of about fifty; he moved slowly and ungracefully, bloated and stiff under a gray mantle. On either side and a little behind walked a Household Guard with a bolstered pistol, the first firearms Dick had seen in Eagles. Behind came an empty chair pushed by two slobs, and trailing on either side were four or five men in formal dark morning dress.
The man in the lead had a sallow face, jowls loose and shapeless, a blob for a nose. There was a dead cigar clenched in his wide, lipless mouth. He did not turn his head, but glanced from side to side as he walked. His little eyes passed incuriously over Dick and Clay; his gloomy expression did not change; he walked on.